


Creature Comforts

by haleinedelail



Series: After Armageddon't: Life With Humanity [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Analyzing the crap out of 80's television, Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Anathema reads auras, Ancient Rome, Aziraphale & Anathema Device Friendship, Aziraphale gets hit on, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale loves the Bentley, Bathroom Sex, Blasphemy, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Chair Sex, Classical Music, Coming In Pants, Crowley Cooks (Good Omens), Crowley Loves the Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley is a kinky bastard, Crowley used to be kind of a slut, Crowley watching Aziraphale eat, Dirty Talk, Episode 3 Cold Open References, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Hair-pulling, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), I Love You, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kinky Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kitchen Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Clothing Kink, Morning Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Newt has a man-crush on Crowley, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Phone Sex, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queen (Band) References, Reminiscing, Satin Kink, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sex in Aziraphale's bookshop, Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Smut, Table Sex, Temptation Shagging, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 113,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22371187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleinedelail/pseuds/haleinedelail
Summary: This story revolves around three things:  humanity, comfort, and sex.Via a series of semi-unfortunate events, Aziraphale and Crowley have become quite a lusty, emotional couple, and they have become HUMAN!  In this story, they learn what it means to be human, what questions must be asked, how to live in their bodies with new vulnerabilities.They're also reveling in bits of the human experience that feel good, taste good, look cool, sound divine, etc.  They teach each other about these things, the creature comforts they've indulged in separately, over the millennia as emissaries on Earth.But mostly, they're enjoying their life together: the domesticity, the simple pleasures, and the sex.  It's going to be quite a lot of sex.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: After Armageddon't: Life With Humanity [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610749
Comments: 220
Kudos: 202





	1. Inspiration Appears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Crowley has brought up a question about their new human bodies (especially his) and has found a rather unlikely go-to for asking such a thing.
> 
> And, he reminisces about the entity he calls "Mind's-Eye-Aziraphale," with whom he has had quite the fantastical, lustful relationship over the past several millennia, and what has happened when he's let his hedonism get the better of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: there's a description of Crowley having sex with someone other than his favourite angel. Take heart - it's still all about Aziraphale.
> 
> Thank you to the reader who suggested the idea of the phone calls to Anathema.
> 
> Also, this chapter may enhance for you (or ruin?) some of the scenes in the episode 3 cold open - fair warning.
> 
> So, nothing sexy HAPPENS yet, but it's still managing some passable smut, right out of the gate. Enjoy!

Two human males awoke to the sound of a really annoying electronic song.

The song played for about fifteen seconds, stopped, then started over.

“What the hell is that?” asked the blonder of the two men, without actually opening his eyes.

“Phone,” groaned the ginger, who was on the ‘sinister’ left, as he always had been.

The flat didn’t have a land line, and the man who slept on the right side of the bed didn’t own a mobile, so when the song started over yet again, he snapped, “Well, get it. It’s dreadful.”

“Ngk,” said the man on the left, as one long arm reached out from under the covers and his hand seized the vibrating apparatus, and killed the music.

“Who is it?”

“Anathema. Sent it to voice mail.”

The man on the right, who was thoroughly a man, and nothing else, sat up groggily, and asked, “Why? It could be important.”

“She’s probably just calling to answer my question,” said the man on the left, who was also just a man. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

“What question?”

“Mm?”

“What question, Crowley?”

“Does it matter?”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, and pouted for a moment, with a childish little grunt. When he didn’t move nor say anything else for another half-minute, Crowley groaned and turned over, sat up and reported, reluctantly, “I wanted to know about how she keeps fit, all right?”

Aziraphale smiled. “You what?”

“Well,” Crowley whined. “I can’t just will myself lean and lithe anymore. I have no reptilian stock to fall back on, or had you forgotten?” When he asked this, he did so by pulling back his eyelids to show his very human brown eyes to his companion, illustrating the total lack of serpentine yellow irises, or vertical pupils.

“No, no, I can hardly forget. Well, then, let me know what she says. Because, I haven’t been as… well, diligent about willing my body to do things as you have, these past six thousand years,” Aziraphale said, suddenly very aware of his own nakedness. “Well, I’ve had less reason to, haven’t I? And, you’ve probably noticed I’ve allowed my corporeal form to become a bit…”

“You’re perfect, Aziraphale,” Crowley lilted. “Whatever you’re going to say, just save it.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said the former angel shyly, with that barely-restrained beam that Crowley absolutely adored, but used to pretend irritated him with its daft innocence. 

“Having said that,” said the former demon, with a sigh. “It wouldn’t hurt for us to find a regime to follow together, so things don’t get away from us. We have no idea how these bodies will metabolise, how they will decay. It’s not like either of us has a family history or genetics to fall back on.”

“Decay?”

“Yeah,” Crowley shrugged. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Human bodies are made to decay. They begin leaning toward entropy, the moment they’re born. In the old days, they used to pray and try to exorcise demons – fat lot of good. These days, they’re constantly dodging germs, taking maintenance medicines, and fighting the ageing process.”

“Good Heavens,” said Aziraphale, staring off into space. “I suppose you’re right. ‘Leaning toward entropy from the moment they’re born.’ That’s daunting.”

“Indeed,” Crowley agreed. “Which is why so many of them do things like, say, take vitamins and do aerobics. Or weight-lifting. And ugh, bloody jogging in the park! Now there’s a pursuit that looks absolutely torturous, and yet, there they are. Jogging in droves.”

“Seems to be a relatively new development.”

“Newish, yeah. Cars and television made them all pudgy and clogged up their arteries.”

“So, why ask Anathema? Why not just consult a professional?”

“Because Anathema knows that we’re coming at this from a position of knowing quite a lot about humanity, and almost nothing about the less-fun aspects of the human body,” Crowley answered. “I mean, I forgot that hangovers were a thing, didn’t you?”

“I did,” admitted Aziraphale. "Until it happened."

“She’ll answer the questions as though we’re working from the ground up. And we are. I know she’s not an expert, but I thought maybe she could show me – or us – what she does, and we can go from there, while sidestepping any difficult questions about past illnesses and injuries, and what, in fact, the human body can do. And if we think we’re ready, maybe we can consult a pro at some point.”

“Ok… not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. But what makes you think that Anathema has any sort of regime? Other than bicycling everywhere?”

Crowley smirked. “Trust me. She does.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows went up, realising what Crowley was saying. “Oh. I suppose I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

“Well, now that we’re up, you might as well listen to that message,” Aziraphale said, climbing out of bed. “I can’t go back to sleep now because, well… these blasted bodies. How do humans cope with visiting the toilet a dozen times a day for ninety consecutive years?”

He padded into the bathroom and shut the door. 

Crowley watched the bare bum as it crossed the room, and felt a welcome twinge between his legs. He hadn’t wanted Aziraphale to know he had contacted Anathema last night with questions about fitness, because he knew it would lead to his companion feeling insecure about the shape of his ‘corporeal form,’ and that was the last thing Crowley wanted. Because the fact was, he hadn’t been lying when he’d called Aziraphale perfect – to his eyes anyway. He’d long, long, long ago fallen in a decadent, lustful love with all aspects of the angel, and wasn’t any less smitten with the man. 

He decided to wait until he could have a few moments alone before checking his voice mail. He didn’t want Aziraphale to think he was too keen about fitness, because to him, it was a non-urgent question of maintenance, not of improvement.

Thinking about the shape of the naked angelic body that had just vacated the bed, taking in the evolving scent of his partner in the sheets, and seeing that round, pink bum in his mind’s eye made him feel suddenly quite amorous. And also, of course, hardened his cock as such thoughts always had. 

The Aziraphale-induced erection was nothing new to him. In The Garden, they were just acquaintances who had some things in common and were able to commiserate a bit, but by the time of The Great Flood, they were bona-fide friends, and the attraction (at least for Crowley) had begun. He absolutely loved flirting with the persnickety angel, and relished in the barely-restrained beam, the breaking of eye-contact, the subtle hints of pulling-away that Aziraphale would display, while still clearly staying engaged with the demon… in conversation, in ribbing, in competition, in drinking…

One evening, just before The Flood, Crowley found himself in the throes of some really boring sex with a tax collector whom he had spent seven weeks tempting into the act. His dalliance with Crowley, it was hoped, would lead to his ultimate disgrace, and the temporary chaotic breakdown of a small corner of economy in that particular town. The man seemed to be feeling pretty good, but all in all, the whole experience was not going to be "worth it" for the tax collector, considering that his entire career would be toppled by this one indiscretion. Crowley was behind him, thrusting, grasping his hips, making the appropriate sounds, saying the appropriate words, but practically rolling his eyes with the tedium. If watches had existed at the time, he’d have been glancing at it.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure how exactly this thing would end. His cock was not interested enough in the proceedings to allow him to come anytime soon, and the way things were going with the tax collector, he seemed a bit too nervous to orgasm properly.

And then, quite without warning, a face appeared in his mind.

He wondered later on if he’d nodded off while shagging the tax collector, and Aziraphale had actually come to him in a dream. But it didn’t matter how, it just mattered that it happened.

Ah, the angel. That face, that voice, those hands… 

One thought, unbidden, renewed Crowley’s waning erection, much to his own shock, and it renewed his vigour. He was inspired quite suddenly.

“Aziraphale,” he had moaned, accidentally, while suddenly digging his fingertips into another man’s fleshy hips.

“What?” asked the tax collector.

“Never mind,” Crowley had growled. “Just don’t talk.”

He closed his eyes and began to thrust faster, imagining the angel’s voice in his ear, begging him do it harder and harder. He obeyed the voice in his mind and began pulling the man’s hips onto him with such roughness that the tax collector cried out in surprise and probably also a bit of wicked euphoria. The man blasphemed then, in a way that had anyone heard it other than the jaded demon fucking him, he’d have been thrown in jail for his words.

But as it was, no-one cared about the blasphemy – the two of them suddenly cared quite a lot about their bodies. Namely, the heat inside, and the impending release. Although, it was for very different reasons.

With the angel’s eyes and lips held in his mind, Crowley had the first truly explosive orgasm of his life. This was the very first punch-to-the-gut, bottle-rocket (if bottle rockets had existed then), blinding, uncorked, scream-inducing climax, of the sort that caused any corporeal being to begin seeking more of it.

He bit his tongue as Aziraphale’s name nearly fell off of it again. Before the angel’s image could fade into post-orgasmic haze for better or for worse, Crowley held onto it, imagined him begging now to be released, to come, to feel everything he could feel with the demon’s body pressed to him. He tugged on the hair of the man in front of him with his left hand, urging him upright. He bit the other man’s shoulder, and with his right hand, Crowley reached around to the front, grasping the tumescent cock, and pumped it until he felt something wet and slippery splattering his fist.

“Oh, angel,” he groaned in the tax collector’s ear, fully feeling the white curls between his fingers, and hearing Aziraphale’s blasphemous grunt of obscene pleasure. Fortunately, the man either didn’t hear it, or didn’t think it was odd, because he didn’t say anything, thank Somebody.

And when the tax collector finally collapsed onto the bed, the one he shared with his wife (who had gone to the next town over to visit her sick sister), Crowley regained consciousness, as it were. He realised where he was, and what he had done. More to the point, he realised how he had done it, and who had been unknowingly involved. 

It was an odd feeling. It wasn’t guilt, exactly, just… a feeling of wrongness. Wrongness was something he was accustomed to, of course, but this was different, and he couldn’t put his finger on why. 

But what mattered was that the man’s neighbour had heard them fucking, and had seen them through the animal skin-covered doorway when he’d come peeping, which had led to the tax collector’s downfall in their town, and to Crowley receiving kudos from his supervisors for a job well done.

Similar things happened a few times over the years, though not all of his temptation shags involved angelic fantasies. Not even all of his boring temptation shags involved angelic fantasies. The Aziraphale of his mind’s-eye seemed to have a mind of his own – he would visit, or not, whenever he felt like it. He was always of help when he did, though.

And then, a couple of millennia down the road, at some point during Crowley’s stint in Ancient Rome, his relationship with Mind’s-Eye-Aziraphale changed quite dramatically.  
They had run into each other in a recreation den just off the marketplace, and Aziraphale had mentioned eating oysters and then used the phrase, “Let me tempt you.” Crowley had reacted to this with bemusement, but had been intrigued, and allowed himself to be tempted. They’d shared a truly unique meal in a new restaurant - the first experience of many, many similar ones over the coming centuries – not to mention some wine, and excellent conversation.

Incidentally, this was when Crowley first realised that he adored watching the angel eat. He found that Aziraphale appreciated his food in almost a full-bodied, sensual way, and that flavours for him were much like the bodily pleasures that Crowley himself enjoyed (such as a warm bath, sleep, and of course, sex).

So, perhaps it was all those oysters they’d eaten (and perhaps the wine) that had caused it in the end, but Crowley retired to his rented bedchamber that night with Aziraphale’s yummy moan fresh in his mind, along with the “quick temptation” he would have to perform in the morning. 

He knew that tomorrow’s task would probably not involve any sex, but as he threw himself onto the bed face-down, he almost wished that he could look forward to a temptation shag. At least that way, there might be a chance of conjuring the angel’s lovely face and form in his head, and becoming inspired by them…

But wait. He was one of the few demons with an imagination. Even if there would be no shagging tomorrow, what was to stop him from using his imagination tonight?

And so, he turned over on his back thought about how voracious the angel had looked, eating fresh oysters, and how erotic it had been, listening to him moan over them.

And immediately, there was stirring in his groin. 

Crowley had then moaned himself, keening with lust and palming his cock through the toga he wore. He was whispering, “Aziraphale… oh, angel…” and in no time, his lust was tenting his garment – it hadn’t taken much.

Crowley took off every stitch of clothing, lay down spread-eagle, and indulged in a fully-fledged fantasy of his angelic counterpart that night. 

It began with Aziraphale eating oysters, slurping them hungrily through those gorgeous, taut lips of his enjoying them to the point of indecency. Then it advanced to him serving and feeding the oysters to Crowley by hand, and asking to be fucked on the table where they had just eaten. And so, amongst the other foods, Aziraphale lay on his back with his knees in the air, his own member in-hand, pumping away while Crowley shoved himself in and out like the fiend that he was. The two of them confessed to always having had crazed, lustful affection toward one another, and would come hard, simultaneously, whilst panting and moaning each other’s names.

The demon had imagined every sordid minute, in great detail, by turns pulling, stroking, jerking his own cock, the entire time. He saw every hearty thrust in and out of the angel’s smooth, thus far unpenetrated hole, and he invented every word, every filthy piece of dialogue that they might exchange. He could practically hear Aziraphale’s pained, orgasmic breathlessness, as he erupted all over himself several times, lying there on the bed in the boarding house. 

Five times that night, to be exact. Each time, he felt a new stirring in his loins, the images would come back out to play, and the fantasy would start all over again…

Until, at last, Mind’s-Eye-Aziraphale, gave his last grunt of pleasure, Crowley came, and he looked down at the careless, wanton mess he had made of himself and the bedclothes… 

And it had all been in the wicked, unholy pursuit of hedonism, of self-pleasure, using the image of a truly good, unsullied angel to sate his own filthy need. Aziraphale was a beatific child of the Almighty. He was pure, and innocent, had hailed from Heaven, had earned the right to remain in its good graces. He walked the Earth trying to help, doing blessings, performing miracles, doing the Almighty’s bidding, and here was Crowley, lecherously defiling the image of him. Who was he, a demon, even to think of Aziraphale?

And now came the guilt.

This was horrible, even for him. This was beyond his usual brand of cool, detached indulgence. This was highly personal, and a terrible blasphemy. Blasphemy was part of a demon’s job, but it felt as though he had forced Aziraphale to commit the same blasphemy, and that was a violation of the angel’s trust – a little bit like an assault, even. There had to be a line that even demons shouldn’t cross, hadn’t there?

Crowley had then rolled over on his side, and burst into tears. The sobs welled up in his chest, one after another, uncontrollable, long, and deeply-wrought. The tears were burning hot, and the emotion was so intense, he thought he might discorporate.

He remained this way – messy upset, guilty, self-loathing – all night. 

When the sun came up, he knew he had a temptation to do, so he forced himself upright, and into his clothes, and he did what he had to do. But on his way back to the boarding house, he ran into Aziraphale again. The sight of the angel caused his breath to hitch, so he had initially tried to trot by, pretending not to have noticed him. But it didn’t work. He had been forced to stop and talk, but he was restless, and Aziraphale could see that. Even through the dark glasses, the angel could tell that Crowley was avoiding eye-contact, and asked what was wrong.

Nothing, no, nothing was wrong… Crowley was a demon, things didn’t go wrong with him, he made them go wrong, eh? Right, then, well, yes, maybe they’d bump into each other again.

He decided to stay in Rome for a while – which became just short of a decade – especially after learning that Aziraphale had returned to the Holy Land. Twice more during his stay there, he had allowed his brain to dive into scenarios with debauched thoughts of Aziraphale, thinking it “would be fine,” that the guilt was out of his system, and it would be worth the string of ridiculously forceful orgasms he could have, while revelling in the possibilities, and the staggering charms of the Angel of the Eastern Gate…

And he did have a string of ridiculously forceful orgasms, whilst imagining Aziraphale with a naked body, filthy mouth, and insatiable desires… 

…just before breaking down into a puddle of Odegra-coloured sadness.

It became, increasingly, not worth it.

After leaving Rome, it was another century before he dared have another “session” with Mind’s-Eye-Aziraphale. But when he did, the same thing happened.

Next, he waited two centuries, then another two. It became a rare, self-destructive “treat” he would grant himself, after enough time had passed. Each time, it would result in a great deal of rigorous physical exertion, which felt so fucking delicious while it was happening, followed by an incredible plunge into guilt and sorrow and shame. And if he should see Aziraphale himself at any point soon after, there was always avoidance, quick escapes, and on the angel’s part, feelings of rejection and confusion.

Clearly, those fully-fledged filthy fantasies of Aziraphale were more painful than pleasurable, but there were times when he just couldn’t stop himself. The last time had been in 1967, in a seedy motel room, having just received a thermos of holy water, which was waiting for him in the Bentley. Somehow the venue lent itself to overindulgence, followed by regret and crying.

Falling in lust with Aziraphale had been easy. Falling in love with him had come later, and had been even easier. Both feelings were pervasive (and basically mutual, if often buried) throughout the last millennium of their purported friendship. So, of course, there had been thousands of times when Crowley had thought about Aziraphale – even thought about sex with him, at length – when it wasn’t an all-out dick-pumping fantasy. Those instances were abundant, normal, and ultimately harmless. They very often took place with Aziraphale sitting right beside him, or across from him. Quite often while the angel was eating.

But going further with his mind and body in high-gear always caused disaster for Crowley.

Mostly, he stuck with generalised wank-fodder if he needed it – usually calling up memories of particularly decadent encounters with women, rather than men, just to be safe – to get him through the night.

___________________________________________________________

This morning, he was remembering all in the space of whatever time it took for Aziraphale to use the loo, these stories, these phenomena that constituted part of the evolution of the Aziraphale-induced erection.

He had one now, and it throbbed insistently as he reminisced about the nasty fantasies he’d had, much to his own great detriment.

But the beauty of it was that now, he could think about that stuff and not feel guilty. He could have fantasies if he wanted… but it wasn’t necessary, because he could just reach out and have the man himself.

He lay on his side, and began to stroke his cock, and resolved that he’d let Aziraphale catch him doing it, which would be quite likely to lure him back into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the shameless plugs begin! How do you feel about this chapter? Why not leave me a comment? ;-)
> 
> I realize that this chapter didn't touch on much of what's in the summary, but as I began to write the fluffy waking-up beginning, and Aziraphale's bum turned Crowley on, I decided to seize the opportunity, and get into some fantasy stuff to which I'd hinted in earlier stories, and which, in my head, are an important part of the Crowley/Aziraphale evolving relationship. 
> 
> Next chapter will be about "Creature Comforts," guaranteed. It will also be smutty. :-) I predict it will be posted in about a week, depending upon how things go!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Showering With Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale discovers one of the great disadvantages of the human body, but Crowley knows exactly how to deal with it. In fact, the solution is one of his favourite creature comforts!
> 
> And it gets pretty steamy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I got ready to post again sooner than I had anticipated. So basically, I can't predict how often this story will be updated - it's crapshoot.
> 
> Annnnd here comes the sex. Enjoy!

Crowley lay upon the bed, thinking of the thing that could make his cock harder than anything: Aziraphale. Who happened to be in the adjacent room, using the loo. He fondled himself, expecting to be caught at any moment.

He heard the toilet flush. Then he heard, "Crowley?"

"Yes, angel?" sang the randy ginger.

"I feel odd," said Aziraphale from the bathroom.

"Odd how?"

Aziraphale stepped out into the bedroom, wearing a black and red Chinese robe that belonged to Crowley, but which Aziraphale had appropriated a few days earlier, and had worn quite a bit, during their otherwise naked moments.

"I feel… I don't know," Aziraphale complained, with an uneasy look on his face. "Sticky. Unclean. And I believe my body is beginning to give off an odour of some sort."

"Oh," Crowley lilted, sitting up. "You can't just will yourself clean and fresh anymore, just like I can't maintain my figure just by wanting it. You probably just need a shower."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, distastefully.

"Yes, angel. Oh, don't look like that – you'll love it."

"I will?"

Crowley stood up and crossed the room to his companion, who watched him with lusty interest as the lean, lithe creature was not only gorgeously nude, but also sporting a massive erection.

"Mm," Crowley confirmed. "It's one of those… you know, things I love. One of the Earthly pleasures."

"Earthly pleasures?"

Crowley got very close and said, softly, "Yes. You know, creature comforts. Like you and your books. Like that Victorian tailcoat you've owned since… Victoria."

"Ah. Creature comforts."

"Mm. It's something that humans do because they have to, but also a little because it feels good, and I've grown quite fond of it."

"Bathing?"

"Yeah, but it's not just about bathing," Crowley explained, running his hands over the other man's chest, and the silk robe adorning his skin. "It's about the warm water on your body. It's about the steam around you, the white noise, the water pressure. If you do it right, you can feel isolated from the whole world for a bit, and it can be glorious."

"Don't you enjoy sleep for some of the same reasons?"

Crowley smirked, taking Aziraphale's hands. "I do. You love food, and I've always loved sleep – those are our front-running creature comforts, the ones we've shared with one another thus far. But a hot shower is not to be underestimated. I've taken them throughout… well, since the advent of indoor plumbing. They're relaxing, and refreshing. A good, hot shower is a full-service sensory experience."

Aziraphale was looking at him with wide eyes, and contemplating what he was saying. "Extraordinary! Well, I suppose I now haven't any choice but to experience one of your favourite creature comforts for myself."

"I suppose you haven't."

"What do I do first?"

"First? Take off that robe."

"And then what?" Aziraphale asked.

"Turn on the water, and find a temperature to your liking," Crowley told him. "Personally, I like to get it as hot as I can, just before it hurts. Something tells me that neither one of us could now tolerate the heat I used to enjoy…"

"Then what?"

Crowley said, "You really need me to tell you? Angel, it's really not that difficult to suss out."

Aziraphale looked down at the stiff piece of flesh jutting out from his companion's body.

"Nevertheless, Crowley, I think you'd better show me, since you have so much experience."

Crowley smiled. "Yeah, I think you're right – the shower is much too dangerous a place for you to venture in the first time on your own."

This was answered with a giggle, as the naked, slightly taller fellow led his partner into the bathroom and shut the door.

Crowley untied the robe, and pushed it over Aziraphale's shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. Now, they were both quite naked, and both quite aroused. Crowley led the way into the slate-coloured shower, and turned on the water, which fell straight down from a nozzle parallel to the floor. He adjusted the temperature to something warm and pleasant, and stepped under the stream, bringing Aziraphale with him.

Then Crowley turned on a second stream of water just opposite. The flat had come with a shower for two, though this was the first time two had ever used it. The second showerhead quickly matched the temperature of the first, and Crowley positioned Aziraphale under one of them.

"Lean your head back, angel," he said, his voice echoing in the space, but also getting lost in the sound of rushing water. "Let the water immerse your head and face." He bent a bit, and began to kiss the underside of Aziraphale's chin, moving down to his neck, and the latter tilted his head back in response, and moaned as the sensations washed over him – warm water, and Crowley's mouth.

Crowley curled his arms round back and embraced him, as he worked his lips and tongue all the way over his companion's neck and shoulders, biting, licking, nipping. The fronts of their bodies pressed together, especially the two stiff, eager phalluses, which now rubbed against each other. They couldn't help but writhe a bit in one another's thrall, arousal rising deliciously. Aziraphale continued to moan, realising that Crowley had been right about the full-service sensory experience of the shower. Though, he was also aware that not all showers came with a former demon, ready to give the showering human a bout of unholy bliss.

"The shower has another added convenience," Crowley said.

"Oh yes?"

"Mm-hm." With that little growl, he reached for a bar of soap, and lathered his hand. He positioned the two of them so as to shield the hand and its intended target from both streams of water, and he grasped Aziraphale's distended member, and began to stroke. The smoothness, the silken, drunken feeling of his lover's hand slipping back and forth caused Aziraphale to curse without compunction, and his eyes practically rolled back in his head.

"Fuck, that feels magnificent," he groaned.

"And this is just the warm-up."

"I'm warm," Aziraphale warned.

"Good," Crowley said. "Me too."

"What are we warming up to?"

"As I said, the shower has an added advantage. It is a place where soap can be used liberally, whilst one is naked, and warm, and wet."

"Indeed."

"It's easy to get slippery. Things slide better in the shower, do you see?" Crowley asked him, still stroking his dick, still nipping at his neck. "Any insistent back-and-forth action might be accomplished much more easily, with less prohibitive friction, and less mess."

"I do see."

"So I'm seizing a teachable moment."

"I'm teachable. I've never been as bloody teachable as I am right now," Aziraphale breathed.

Suddenly, Crowley put the bar of soap in his hand. "That's the spirit, angel." And he turned around and faced the wall, placing his hands on the tile, bending his torso forward ever so slightly. "Do you know what to do with that?"

Aziraphale allowed his eyes to rove hungrily over Crowley's wet, taut body, especially the apple-like bum cheeks now pointed at him, and he almost came, on the spot. He couldn't believe his incredible luck, to be loved and lusted-after by a being this gorgeous, this tempting. To be gifted with glimpses – full-on panoramic views – of this well-tended corporeal form in all its glory was one very arousing thing. But now, if he wasn't mistaken, he was now being asked to penetrate it, for their mutual pleasure, with his hard, wanting shaft, and that was quite another thing! Arousing wasn't even the word for it… in fact, how would he survive the next few minutes of anticipation, without climaxing too early, and ruining everything?  
__________________________________________

Crowley felt the hesitation. In fact, Aziraphale hesitated long enough that he wondered whether he'd come on too strongly, or assumed too much about his partner's burgeoning sexual instincts. But, just as he was about to turn and ask if anything was wrong, he felt a strong, purposeful hand cupping his left cheek, and squeezing with abandon. He leaned into Aziraphale's touch, bent a bit deeper and gave him a bit more flesh to grip.

Then, something smooth and slippery slid from top to bottom between his buttocks, and it felt divine. Well, it would, wouldn't it? He moaned, "That's it, angel, you've got this."

He moaned again as the soap made another pass, and then another.

And then, two soapy hands kneaded his bum briefly, just before the side of a slick few digits worked its way into the crevice, and Aziraphale asked, "Is this good?"

"Oh, very good," Crowley answered, his voice low, speech slurred. "Very, very good."

The tips of two finger found Crowley's rear opening, and played there for a few moments, massaging, teasing, while the other hand continued to knead the tight cheek beside it.

Crowley continued to moan – he could not stop. The anticipation was wicked.

"Shall I put my fingers inside you, Crowley?"

"Fuck, yes," Crowley replied, slowly, clearly.

And then he felt two heavenly fingers pop into his puckered hole, and begin to work back and forth. He groaned deeply, and bent his body even further forward, and pushed his feet a bit more; apart to give access. Those two fingers, in this simple act, almost made him lose his load right then, such was the power of Aziraphale's fingers, any part of that body penetrating his. It made him buzz all over, and want to pull on his dick until he had nothing left, but he forced himself to stay in-check. The best was yet to come (literally).

"I need more," he demanded.

"All right," Aziraphale said, pulling his fingers free. And when Crowley felt his back door being pried open again, it was with three fingers. It had been seventy-eight years since anything had entered him this way, and he was tight and sensitive. He let a crackling groan loose into the tiled room, and it echoed loudly.

Aziraphale finger-fucked him. He began slowly, then picked up the pace, asking, "How does that feel, my love?"

"So fucking good," Crowley slurred back, trying desperately to keep himself under control.

"Are you quite ready for me to enter you?" Aziraphale asked, primly, withdrawing his slippery fingers. Somehow his pinched, proper tone made the whole thing even more wanton. 

"I'm so ready, I'm scared I'm going to fuck the whole thing up!"

"Me too."

For good measure, Aziraphale passed the soap through between the primed buttocks two more times. Crowley cursed, half at the delicious sensation, and half at the aggravating delay.

And Crowley shivered as he felt the unmistakable probing of the mushroomed head of a rock-hard cock, right there, opening his hole just so.

"Oh, fuck!" he said, teeth gritted, resisting the urge to jerk backwards and fill himself already. The compulsion was so strong he bit his lip, and told himself that within moments, in his angel's own time, his arse cheeks would be pressed against Aziraphale's hips, and he'd be full to the brim, of throbbing, aching, twitching dick. There was no need to rush… 

Aziraphale's melodious groan filled the hot shower as he wrapped his hands around the slim hips in front of him, and slowly eased in his rigid member. He wanted to make the moments last, but he, too, was eager to shove forward and begin fucking this absolutely exquisite being…

But he went slowly, and within a few moments, he was, indeed, buried all the way to the hilt inside the former demon Crowley.

"Angel, you feel so good in me…"

"You feel so good, too…" whimpered Aziraphale. "I can't hold back anymore, Crowley.

And with those words, he stopped holding back, and began to thrust. Hard. And fast. He found a rhythm that worked, and settled into it… over and over and over again, he thrust in, then pulled back, and it was devilishly good. Well, it would be, wouldn't it?

He had never done this before, but his body, he found, learned quickly. This was what it wanted. This was what it was all about. This, this, this.

This was fucking.

The slap of his loins against Crowley's bum, over and over.

The groans and expletives filling the room.

The slipping and sliding of another person's body, sheathing one's erect member again and again whilst stimulation grew and grew and mounted toward a peak…

The impending release. The begging for more and never wanting it to end, but also wanting to erupt more than one has ever wanted anything ever.

The breathlessness. The tightening. The announcing!

"Crowley, I'm going to come…" Aziraphale said, almost against his own will.

"Do it, angel," Crowley barked. "Fill me up good. Do it!"

__________________________________________________

Crowley knew that Aziraphale had never performed this particular act before – thus far, in their short sexual relationship, Aziraphale had only ever been on the receiving end of this sort of business. But he had always been quick on the uptake, and now Crowley was learning that his angel fucked as well and truly as anyone he had ever met. It wasn't just that he was Aziraphale, and Crowley loved everything about him, including presumably, the way his body hungered and satisfied itself.

No, he was actually a good fuck – a natural. Amazing, in fact. Aziraphale clearly had passion and desire… but he also had strength. The angel had been a supernatural being for most of the time Crowley had known him, so he had certain celestial abilities. But the body, the corporeal form, the muscle and flesh and bone, he had always suspected, was stronger than it looked, and that was becoming apparent now, as Aziraphale handled him.

And, there was a certain selfishness to this act that was not conducive to perfect angelic sensibilities…

…but Aziraphale had always been an imperfect angel. "Just enough of a bastard," Crowley had said of him, and so the selfishness took over.

Crowley could hear his cheeks slapping against Aziraphale's pelvis as the latter pulled back on him, and he felt his arse pounded hard, dissolutely. It was beyond expectation… so bloody good… his vision blurred a bit…

"Crowley, I'm going to come…" announced his fast-moving partner.

"Do it, angel," was what came out of Crowley's mouth. "Fill me up good! Do it!"

It was his honest reaction… it was what he wanted… now…

And then he heard his angel's grunt, and the unmistakable sensation of warm, creamy come flooding his insides. "Oh, shit," Crowley groaned, having never felt anything so devastating before. The love and the sensation, all clinging together…

Almost as an afterthought, Crowley began pumping his own cock, looking for release.

Aziraphale gave his final shove, and then a big, dramatic exhale, and Crowley pulled away from him. He turned around and grabbed his companion by the back of the head and smashed his mouth in for a hard kiss, as orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks. It was tight and long, and slick white come shot all over Aziraphale's stomach and his own, though the shower quickly washed it away.

And with both bodies trembling and sated for now, they pressed together once again, let their tongues dance against each other, let falling water immerse them from head to toe, and recovered from the shock in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that using soap in this way isn't always the safest, healthiest thing, but... well, it felt opportune. And the consequences will be dealt with... sort of.
> 
> Please comment - it will make my day, and give me encouragement to write more (since this story isn't already done before I began posting!) I would love love love hearing from you!


	3. Gyros For Zira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: Crowley Tries Yoga
> 
> Our two favorite supernatural-beings-turned-human have lunch together in the book shop, and talk about stuff. A few new (and entertaining!) creature comforts come to light, along with at least one inconvenience about being human.
> 
> No smut in this chapter... just flirting, innuendo, and some sweet domesticity. And humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, I've had so little feedback on the previous chapter, I've been forced to conclude that people aren't liking the story. If that's the case, I could use a hint!

“Anathema, hello, my dear, this is Aziraphale,” the owner of a rare and antique bookshop whispered into an old-fashioned telephone, as two customers milled about. “I need to ask you a question.”

Blast it, he knew he shouldn’t have opened up today – he’d been waiting all morning for a chance to be alone in the shop for a few minutes, but bloody customers kept inconsiderately coming in and wanting things. So he gave up, and made his phone call clandestinely. When her voice mail had answered, he was surprised to find himself relieved.

“I’ll try to be brief. Oh, my… this is a bit embarrassing, now that I’m here, and I’m on the phone, and you can hear me. Well, not hear me, exactly, but you will hear me. Later, that is, when you listen to this message. The thought of you hearing what I have to say is… well, I won’t lie to you, it’s a bit terrifying, but you see, I lost the coin toss, so…” he tittered. He took a deep breath, and let it out noisily, then said, “All right. No time like the present, eh? Here it is, my dear. I want to ask you about when the human body – specifically the human skin – seems, er… dry. And I don’t mean dry, as in the opposite of wet. I mean dry, as in… not supple. Human skin, apparently, needs to be maintained, just like everything else on these bizarre bodies. Especially the hands and face, I find. But, in addition, there are, erm, other parts that feel, well, shall we say… rough. More intimate parts. Delicate, if you like. Oh good grief, this is mortifying! I’m going to hang up now, Anathema. Bye!”

His heart was beating a thousand miles per hour as he slammed the phone back into its ornate cradle, and leant back in his chair, panting a bit. He sat, wide-eyed, fidgety, recovering from the trauma for a few minutes, then heard the door of the bookshop open. He leaned to see who it was, and was pleasantly surprised to find his tall, handsome, human partner sauntering in amongst the tomes. It was a sunny day, and he was wearing sunglasses, which was something he hadn’t done much since becoming human. He tore them off his face coolly, just like he used to, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said sprightly, immediately calming, as he stood up and strode out to meet Crowley halfway. Crowley gave a little salute and an eyebrow flutter, and headed to the sofa. Aziraphale noticed then that Crowley was carrying a bag from his favourite Greek restaurant, around the corner. “Did you bring lunch?” he asked, with affected excitement and greed in his voice.

“Indeed I did, angel,” Crowley answered digging into the bag, and extracting a box for each of them. “I’m famished. As are you, I assume?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “How did you guess?”

He dearly wished they were alone, and in the old days, he could snap his fingers and make the sign on the door change, to read that opening hours were as he fancied them at that moment. But as things were, the sign said the shop was open for business until 3:00 p.m. today, plain as you like.

As if reading his mind, Crowley asked, voice low and secretive, “Can’t we get rid of these people?”

“I can’t kick them out, the sign says we’re open until three,” Aziraphale argued, whining a bit.

“So?” Crowley asked, with a grunt. He stood up and walked the three steps out onto the sales floor. “Ladies and gents, I must inform you, the shop is closing for the lunch hour. New policy as of today.”

“All right,” said the lady standing nearby, inspecting a hundred-year-old copy of 'The Aeneid.' She placed it back on the shelf. “Will you reopen later this afternoon?”

“Yes, at one o’clock,” Aziraphale answered. “Feel free to return and make your purchase then.”

“As I’m sure it’s quite urgent that you acquire today this ancient book, which you’ve lived without quite well for the past hundred years,” Crowley muttered, shooing her to the door. He followed as she left and locked it behind her.

“Crowley, is this really just lunch? Because I’m not really in any shape for… I mean, I’m still a bit sensitive…”

“Relax, angel, it’s just lunch,” Crowley said. “Which reminds me, did you call Anathema?”

“I left a message,” Aziraphale said, curtly. “A highly ridiculous message full of me hemming and hawing, and sounding like a total English dandy, or a blushing schoolboy, or a lecherous middle-aged man… or all three!”

Crowley burst out laughing, and said, “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Now, belt up, you! Next time, you’re making the embarrassing call, I don’t care what the bloody coin says!” Aziraphale scolded.

“Hm. Human Aziraphale is cantankerous when he’s peckish,” Crowley said, sitting back down on the sofa and setting one of the takeaway boxes on the far side of the coffee table for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and moved his chair over to the coffee table, and had a seat himself.

Crowley said, “Well, I think I worked out what’s causing part of the, er… you know, the dryness problem.”

“Oh yes?” The box sat open for the moment, as Aziraphale waited for whatever information Crowley could impart.

“It occurred to me that we might both be allergic now to the soap we used this morning – that happens to humans, I think. So I looked into it on the internet. Turns out, you’re actually not supposed to use soap for… what we used it for.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew very big. “You’re not?”

“I guess not."

“So, you’re only supposed to use… well, the substance that comes in that little tube, that you can buy at the... well, the 'advanced flying' store?”

“I suppose,” Crowley said. “I guess we’d better buy a backup tube for the shower.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, Crowley, don’t be so vulgar.”

Crowley laughed. “Really? You’re going all prim and proper on me now? Not five hours ago, you soaped up my…”

“I know! Shh! Just… all right, so…” Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “How did people manage before that stuff was invented?”

Crowley shrugged. “Olive oil.”

Aziraphale made a face, then said, sardonically, “Well, at least we won’t need to buy a backup for the kitchen.”

Crowley hadn’t really heard. “Angel, I’m really sorry – I didn’t know. It’s never been an issue for me before. All part of that automatic body maintenance thing we used to have.”

“Don’t apologise, love, we’re both learning,” Aziraphale said, picking up his lamb gyro with extra tzatziki sauce, and taking a bite. He moaned with his usual sensory delight, and a little of the sauce was left on his lips. He chewed a bit, then stuck his tongue out to lick it away. He said, rather sensually, “Oh Crowley, thank you. This is, as usual, divine.”

This entire procedure nearly drove Crowley to distraction. 

He shook it off, and took a bite of his own gyro (chicken, extra tomatoes), reminded once again of how hungry he was. Hunger was a new feeling, and it was much more unpleasant than he had ever anticipated. Unfortunately, he was finding that he cared, on the whole, much more about making it go away, than about eating good foods. Aziraphale, thankfully, remained a fussy gourmet, so in living together, Crowley hoped they could balance each other a bit.

They ate in silence for a moment or two, and then Aziraphale, while chewing, said, “Honestly, Crowley, this is a lovely surprise. And you managed to choose the very thing I was craving today. Well, the very food I was craving.” He batted his eyelashes almost unknowingly, then averted his gaze and blushed.

Crowley nodded. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Are you enjoying food more, or less, since becoming human?”

“Hard to say,” Crowley told him, inspecting his gyro (for what, he did not know) before taking another bite. “I have an unexpected relationship with food at the moment, which I imagine will change over time.”

Aziraphale picked up two pieces of grilled broccoli out of the container and popped them in his mouth. “Well, me, I love Greek food.”

“Name a type of food you don’t love,” said Crowley, affectionately.

“Well, American fast food comes to mind,” answered his companion. “But even that can have its place from time to time.”

“Really?”

“From time to very long increment of time, yes,” Aziraphale qualified. “I suppose you’ve always been right: this is my favourite creature comfort. Apart from you.”

With a smile Crowley said, “For me, sleep is the one you know about. But actually, it’s always been my second favourite.”

“Second?”

“Well, not always – just since Rome, when we had oysters.”

“Oh?”

“I adore watching you, enjoy your favourite creature comfort.”

This wasn’t a particular surprise to Aziraphale. He’d have to have been living behind a forcefield with one-way tinted windows not to notice the way Crowley concentrated on him while he partook of well-prepared foods. He smiled, and said, “Your greatest enjoyment is watching me… enjoy?”

“Yep. Love is love, angel.”

“That’s very moving, Crowley,” Aziraphale said seriously, but sweetly.

Crowley fluttered a naughty eyebrow at him. “Oh, you have no idea just how moving.”

“So, watching me with food, for you is… erm…”

The pause went on so long that Crowley just finished the sentence. “…a huge, torturous turn-on? Fuck, yes.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said with that tight, adorable smile. “Just… checking.”

“Shocked?”

“No, no, not shocked.”

“Good, because if you hadn’t noticed by now…”

“I’d noticed. It's not as though you’ve been subtle.”

“Nope, not a whit,” Crowley agreed. “So, I’ve got you and your food, then there’s sleep, showers, and… oh, cars. I do love cars.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, resting his hands in his lap, still holding the gyro. He barely made any nose, and he stared at his knees.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“It’s just… it’s funny you should mention cars, because… I have, well, you. Plus my culinary delights, books, obviously, but… erm…”

Again, the pause went on so long, Crowley had to do something. “Yes?” he asked, with a burgeoning, wicked smile. “Angel, do you have a fetish I don’t know about?”

“No, not a fetish. It’s just, well, you say that my enjoyment of food brings arousal for you. I must admit there’s something that you love that… well…”

After another pause, “Oh, Aziraphale, I’m champing at the bit to hear what’s going to come out of that mouth of yours.” If Crowley had still had any snake left in him, it would have come out as more of a hiss than as a voiced thought.

“For me, it’s always been just a little bit titillating being in your car.” Aziraphale spoke barely audibly, but it was enough.

“What? Really?” Crowley practically shouted, truly surprised, and quite delighted.

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘huge, torturous turn-on,’ as you said a moment ago. But… Crowley, the love and dedication you’ve shown that car, and how it’s an extension of your personality, and how meticulously you keep it and care for it… well, that’s quite moving, as well. It’s something that makes you feel good, feel cool, and powerful and sexy… isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is, yes.”

“Of course it is. And being surrounded by that has always made me feel… well, if I’m honest, just a bit jealous. But also, quite warm. Quite reassured. And a bit…”

“…randy?”

“Just a bit, yes.”

Crowley said, “Oh, the Bentley, angel. Who would’ve guessed?”

“It’s really more about you, and what the Bentley means to you. If that car were owned by anyone else, it would just be a hunk of metal to me.”

“Understood,” Crowley said, with a smile.

They stayed in the throes of some really intense eye-contact for a few moments, and both felt a surge of lust. But they didn’t have much time before the shop was to reopen, and neither of them felt fully up to getting naked and sweaty just now, due to some really annoying skin irritations, so Crowley changed the subject.

“Well, I guess I meant to tell you this earlier, when it was relevant, and I got side-tracked,” he said. “I listened to Anathema’s message this morning after you left. The one about keeping in-shape.”

“And?” asked his partner, taking another bite, and groaning mildly, “Mm.” He was not unaware of the effect this had, but he was in fact, reacting with honesty toward the food, and he’d be damned if he’d stop himself just to keep Crowley’s libido in check.

“She said she’d meet up with one or both of us, and show us the sort of things she does, fitness-wise,” Crowley answered. “She jogs, of course, which is going to be absolute fucking torment – and mind you, I’ve been to Hell. A lot.”

“Oh, it won’t be that bad. I jogged in the park with Gabriel, and I didn’t die. Of course, at the time , I wasn’t capable of dying…”

“And she says she does a variety of calisthenics and resistance exercises,” Crowley finished.

“What does that mean?”

“No idea.”

“Well, since you brought up a physical regime again, it occurs to me that there’s another sort of creature comfort that I’ve been fond of, and haven’t told you about.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“Yes. Yoga.”

“Yoga?”

“It builds muscle strength, or so I’m told, plus flexibility. But I’ve always gone as a way of relaxing, and refreshing myself and centering my thoughts."

“I’ve got sleep and showers for that."

“And I’ve slept with you and showered with you. Only fair if you yoga with me.”

“Yeah, but sleeping together and showering together leads to sex. Yoga is… prayerful. All inner-peacekeeping, not so much with the sexy. And 'yoga' is not a verb,” Crowley pouted.

“But it could help you get a better handle on your muscle groups, and what your human body can do. You might also learn to breathe… not so as to survive by converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, but as a way of cleansing and purging the body. It’s metaphorical, of course, or psychological, or whatever. But coupled with stretching the muscles and concentrating on balance and guided inner focus, it is quite effective.”

“Ugh, I don’t know, angel,” Crowley whined. “I used to give yoga studios leaky roofs and make rabbits chew on unattended mats, just to fuck with them.”

“That was then. You’re human now. There’s a class at four o’clock this afternoon, at the studio where I go sometimes. It’s not far.”

“It just seems like such…”

“Okay, what would work faster?” Aziraphale interrupted, groaning with tedium. “Would that be me, getting all professorial and forceful and deciding for you, and saying things like ‘you’re in a relationship now, and you don’t get to say no to me after I’ve categorically said yes to you so many times, you horny old demon’? Or would that be the doe eyes that have worked so well in the past?”

Crowley was utterly charmed by the question itself. He smiled. “Do both, and we’ll see where we land.”

\-----------------------------------------------

At 3:55 that day, Aziraphale and a grumbly Crowley walked through a standard-issue commercial foyer with a desk and waiting area and signed in. The girl at the front desk gestured for them to go through the door behind her, and when they did, they found themselves outside again, in a small Japanese-style garden. When they looked up, they could see a couple of trendy buildings, a rooftop terrace just now welcoming patrons, and the back of an art house cinema – the trappings of the stylish Soho of the environs.

“Oh, angel, this is so pretentious,” Crowley whispered.

“Then you’ll feel right at home,” Aziraphale countered.

“Zira,” said a petite blonde woman, coming toward them, across a little wooden bridge. She wore a blue sleeveless top, and white leggings, all in all, looking as though her clothing had been painted on. She had a chirpy American accent and seemed as though she had been handcrafted as a walking, talking Californian stereotype. “So good to see you again! It’s been ages!”

“Madeline! Yes – eight weeks,” he said, nervously, remembering it had been since before the Apocalypse since he’d last dipped his toe in the pool of yogic life. “Practically an eternity.”

“You brought a guest?”

“Yes, Madeline, this is Crowley. Please excuse him - he's a bit out of sorts because he’s never done this before. He’s my… well…”

“Ah, no need to explain,” she chirped. “Although, Zira, you know we only do first names here. None of that English formality for us!”

“Well then,” Crowley said, sighing, but nevertheless holding out a hand to her. “I suppose that means you’d better call me Anthony.”

“Anthony, it is,” she said, shaking his hand with both of hers. The way she spoke somehow made her already bright blue shirt an even brighter hue of blue. And she pronounced ‘Anthony’ in the American way, with the voiceless dental fricative ‘th,’ as in ‘thruppence,' or 'throbbing,' or 'thumbscrew.’ Crowley found that immensely annoying.

From there, Madeline excused herself and went along to irritate others who were also milling around in the garden area.

“Zira?” Crowley asked, his voice a bit mocking.

“Well, I had to say something,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve got used to answering to Mr. Fell, but when she said she wouldn’t call me that, I panicked. I thought Zira would be more likely to get my attention than anything I could make up. I told her it was a nickname, and she seemed pleased.”

“It’s horrible. Remind me why we’re here again, angel.”

“Oh, shut it,” Aziraphale scolded. “Quit being a misery just because you’re not getting your way.”

They proceeded through the sound-proofed doors into the main studio, which really reminded Crowley of the Japanese-style bedroom he’d had decorated for Aziraphale, in his own flat. They stripped off the top layers of clothing, and committed it all to a cubby, leaving them both in a tee-shirt (ivory for Zira, black for Anthony), and a pair of loose-fitting trousers (which Crowley had had to buy, as he wasn’t a loose-fitting clothes sort of bloke). They extracted two mats, founds spots next to one another, said a few hellos, then began.

Madeline led the class from a slightly raised pedestal at the front of the room. They all began in Lotus pose, which she demonstrated, then walked around the room correcting the beginners. She then guided them through a couple minutes of breathing, then said, “Namaste, everyone. At this time, I would like you to let go of your fears, and what is troubling you – just for now. We don’t run from our troubles here, we just set them aside. If it helps, you can think of your worries as a hat, and you can join me as we concentrate all of our negative energy into that hat, and mime removing it, and putting it onto the floor beside our mats.”

A few people did it, and Crowley whispered, “Really?”

“Hush,” his partner scolded.

“I know that sometimes it seems you have the metaphorical weight of the world on your shoulders,” she continued.

“Or the literal weight of the world,” Crowley muttered. “That happens, too.”

“Shush!”

“But in our practise today, we will absorb that weight, so that it doesn’t pull us down. We cannot ignore our problems, but we can learn to carry them more gracefully.”

And then, through a series of visualisation techniques, Madeline taught the room, including Crowley, how to incorporate their worries into their muscles, stretch them out, and feel the oneness. 

More importantly, Crowley learned whether his calves could extend beyond the average length (they can), and whether he can hold cobra position for longer than five seconds (he can’t).

“Well, damn it,” he murmured. “If there was any pose you’d think I could do…”

He learned whether he could touch his toes (not at first, but he got there before the end). He noticed muscles he’d never realised he had. He felt his hamstrings stretch for the first time, and was disturbed by it. He discovered how difficult it is to hold one’s own weight in the downward-dog position for an extended period (causing muscle fatigue in his shoulders), and how amazing it can feel when the joints pop, and a muscle is kneaded into relaxed submission via its own elasticity.

In the end, he had to admit that it had been more difficult that he had anticipated, and also, more effective.

“I did learn quite a bit about my body,” he said. “I don’t know if I could articulate any of it, but I’m feeling things I’ve never felt. However, it was just as woo-wooey as I’d feared.”

“Woo-wooey?” Aziraphale asked, in a properly stilted manner.

“Yeah, all that spiritual stuff, and the cutesy phrases, and the oneness, and the general linguistic bullshit.”

“That’s just guidance. Visualisation. It's words, nothing more, and it’s part of the package. It’s psychological. The creature part of the creature comfort, if you will. It acknowledges that we’re all thinking beings, and we have to get out of our heads for a while.”

“Yeah well… fair dues on this one, overall,” Crowley conceded. “The stretching and breathing are really good when combined – a little bit intoxicating.”

“Intoxicating? Interesting.”

“What’s interesting is how if you breath into a stretch, you can go further. Did you know that, before you started yoga?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, with a smile. “Oh, it’s splendid to see you enthusiastic about something.”

“I’m not enthusiastic,” Crowley corrected quickly. “I’m fascinated, is all. It’s so clever, and so simple. How ingenious to teach you the nooks and crannies of a human body by doing an activity that the human body finds totally unnatural.”

“Well, yes – unnatural for a time. You might get used to it, like I did. Honestly, Crowley, I don’t know why you thought you wouldn’t fancy it. Everyone knows that physical exertion puts one in touch with one’s body, and if ever there was anyone who was in touch with his body…”

“You’re not wrong. I quite enjoyed feeling it respond to… well, stimuli, for the first time. That’s rather intoxicating, as well.”

“Again with the intoxicating? And responding to stimuli? So, it’s all about hedonism still?” Aziraphale asked, with mock exasperation, stifling a smile (not very well).

“Of course,” Crowley shrugged with a smile. “Isn’t everything?”

\---------------------------------------------------------  
Just after ten that evening, Crowley snuck off to make a call.

“Anathema. Crowley,” he said to her voice mail, sounding supremely irritated. “What does a human do when the body hurts… literally everywhere?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are things going? Drop me a comment, and let me know your thoughts.
> 
> Honestly, it's pretty hard to keep going without feedback!! (I'm needy.)
> 
> Thank you for reading... if indeed, you are reading! ;-)


	4. More Bookshop Banter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, our heroes have a flirty domestic confab in the bookshop.
> 
> We hear from Anathema!
> 
> We hear about more about the Archangel Michael, and the accommodations she's made for our ineffable pair.
> 
> A new life-changing notion gets introduced.
> 
> Again, no smut, BUT seeds get planted for a very naughty next couple of chapters!

It was now approximately eighteen hours after Crowley’s first foray into yoga – around lunch time the following day – and he was still sore. He was moving like a man of eighty, rather than forty… which was ironic because in actuality, he was literally older than Methuselah. This morning, Aziraphale had reported feeling “just a bit” of ache in his muscles, but overall seemed much less miserable than Crowley. 

The former demon was currently sitting in a coffee shop with his laptop, researching real estate agents. He had chosen one – Laura Minahan was her name – had spoken to her on the phone, and set up a meeting for one hour from now. A call had come in during his conversation with Ms. Minahan, and he had put it to voice mail. He dialled in and listened.

“Crowley? Anathema,” the voice said. Then, it sighed heavily. “Look, I’m happy to be your go-to human, if you have questions… largely because I realise you don’t have a heck of a lot of options. But the last two messages I got from you guys were something about dry skin in private areas, and then another about being sore all over. And honestly, the combination of those two topics in such a short increment of time… well, let me just ask you: how personal do you really want to get with me? Apart from that, I find the whole thing greatly concerning. Frankly, it makes me want to refer you to a qualified sex therapist. But somehow, I don’t think that would work at all because, sorry to say, you’re both kind of awkward, and there’s a good chance you’d wind up saying something that would give yourselves away or, more likely, see you committed to a mental institution in the end.

“So, I’m going to pretend like I have no idea what’s going on, and just answer your questions calmly. But I’m also going to ask: do you guys know how to use Google? I’m just, you know… putting it out there. And I’ll leave it at that.

“Okay, here goes. Now, keep in mind, I’m a woman, and I think that your questions might have to do with body parts I just don’t possess (and Newt, by the way, refuses to discuss any of this with me). However, in my experience, dryness and/or chafing in sensitive areas sorts itself out in a couple of days. If it is caused by soap, coupled with (ahem) an unusual amount of friction or chafing, unless either of you has a specific allergy, the human body is designed to want to heal itself naturally. If it doesn’t clear up in forty-eight hours or so, go see a doctor. You said you have paperwork to prove you’re citizens, right?”

At that point, the message timed out, and Crowley noticed that there was another.

“Sorry about that – I guess I’m taking too long,” she said. “Anyway, concerning the body being sore all over, the best thing for me is ibuprofen and a hot shower. Or… have you tried yoga? Also, eating protein is supposed to help, but you have to intake it soon after your, um… workout. 

“Speaking of which, do you still want me to show you my exercise routine? I’m not a personal trainer but I feel more comfortable talking about fitness with you than about chafing in unlikely places – call me old-fashioned.

“Well, I guess that about does it for this disastrous message – darn, I wish it could go on for longer. Phone me if you like. I can’t promise I won’t bristle, but I’m totally willing to share my humanness with you. I’ve got humanness to spare. Talk soon. Bye.”

Crowley was, in general, charmed by Anathema Device – or Book Girl, as he liked to call her – now that he’d got to know her a bit. He found her cute as a button, clever, and incredibly accommodating (thank goodness). He smiled at every point throughout her message, and resolved to share it with Aziraphale later on.

“Oh! Shit! Aziraphale!” he croaked aloud, remembering they’d talked about Crowley maybe bringing lunch again today.

\-----------------------------------------------

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice sounded, just after Aziraphale heard the bell ring, indicating someone had come through the front door of the bookshop.

“In here!” Aziraphale called out from the back-back room, where he was inventorying a new shipment of random books that had recently come from an old bombed-out library somewhere in the Middle East. He had paid a fortune for it, a few months before the Apocalypse scare. 

The shop was currently devoid of customers, which was the way Aziraphale liked it.

Crowley made his way to the back, and put a folded-over white paper bag on the table beside where Aziraphale was working. He then moved to the small sink in the back room, and extracted the new bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket.

“Hello, love,” Aziraphale said, sprightly. “Thank you for bringing lunch again! I promise, you don’t have to do this every day. I just so enjoyed our gyros yesterday.”

“It’s just a turkey croissant sandwich from the café on the corner. And I’m sorry, angel, but I can’t stay and eat with you today. I’ve got an appointment in about ten minutes,” Crowley said, struggling with the medicine’s bottle cap.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, looking a bit crestfallen. “All right. An appointment with whom?”

“A real estate agent – name’s Laura.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose as though someone had used a pulley. “Are we moving house?”

“Well,” Crowley began, downing three pills, then leaning his bum on a credenza, and crossing his arms. “Funny story. I just started out looking for someone who could help me get an actual deed to the flat. But then I realised that any agent worth their salt is going to want to know how the Heaven I’ve been living in that flat for seven years without having done any paperwork, and I have absolutely zero idea of how to lie about it, so as not to get investigated by… who knows whom.”

“Pity we can’t get hold of…” Aziraphale subtly pointed upwards. “Anyone who could help. Michael seemed amenable.”

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Crowley said. “As I was poking around online, I got a notification on my phone, updating me on the status of my bank account.”

“You have a bank account?”

“I do now,” Crowley answered. “Never had one before, but there’s a first time for everything. I mean, my balance is less than a thousand pounds, but it’s there, right enough.”

“Wow,” Aziraphale said, softly. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“But you haven’t heard the weird part yet,” Crowley continued. “Five minutes later, a call came in from a number I didn’t recognise. It turned out to be the bank that owns the loan on the flat.”

“You actually took out a loan on the flat?”

“No! That’s what I’m telling you! Someone has given me a paper trail!”

“Oh, that’s… that’s good isn’t it?”

“Well, it’ll make things a Hell of a lot easier,” Crowley said. “I guess we have Michael to thank for that.”

“I would guess so,” Aziraphale agreed, smiling. “Who would have thought, eh?”

“Anyway, the mortgage payment is late, apparently. I’m going to need some help,” Crowley reported.

“All right,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll look into it tomorrow morning. I suppose we should combine resources. Make everything accessible to the both of us.”

“Oh, a joint bank account, angel,” Crowley lilted, smirking. “That’s an awfully big commitment.”

Aziraphale’s fairly well-developed, yet rarely-seen, ‘sarcastic mode’ took over. “Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps we should wait until we’ve known each other a bit longer.”

Crowley chuckled. “Just saying.”

“So, if everything with your flat is squared away, remind me why you’re speaking to a real estate agent. Have you decided that we’re moving, now that we have the paper trail to make it possible?”

“I’ve ‘decided’ nothing. It crossed my mind, is all. I made an appointment with this Laura person, and after that, found out about the account and the paper trail. So, it occurred to me that since I’ve got her on the hook, we might want to consider living somewhere that…”

“…doesn’t look like it was decorated by a minion of Hell?”

"As for example,” Crowley conceded. Then he frowned. "Oi, I thought you liked my flat."

“I like it because you’re there, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “It’s home because it’s where you are. The décor, however, with the exception of my bedroom, which I never even use anymore, leaves a lot to be desired for a person with my sensibilities. Though, I will admit that you have exquisite taste. Dark, severe, and modern, but impeccable.”

Crowley sighed heavily. “All right, fair dues, I suppose.”

“And now you’ve brought it up, I suppose it might be nice to find a place to live that suits you and me equally,” Aziraphale said, a smile spreading across his face like a waxing moon. “Or, I suppose we could have your flat redecorated.”

“Let’s look about, and see what we can find. We don’t have to decide any time soon. And… angel, we can sleep in your room sometimes, if you want.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “It doesn’t matter that much, Crowley. As long as you’re there, I don’t care where we sleep.”

Crowley felt a flush of affection, and longed to reach out and kick off a bookstore nooner with his angel, but he refrained. He was, after all, incredibly sore, not to mention late for an appointment. 

But he did move round the table, and grab Aziraphale from the side by one lapel, causing him to lose his balance just a bit, and lean to his right. Crowley planted a kiss on him, of the sort that lends itself to newly-discovered domestic bliss, and said, “Enjoy your sandwich – I have to get back to the café. That’s where I’m meeting Laura. I’ll see you tonight, angel.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, head spinning just a bit. Crowley’s kisses addled him just a bit, in a way that sexual contact did not – he wasn’t sure why. It was very, very pleasant, and took him a moment to ground himself. “I’ll look forward to hearing how it goes.”

Aziraphale turned back to his inventory with a not-quite-suppressed smile, and Crowley turned to leave.

“Oh… angel?” Crowley asked, stopping in the doorway. “Almost forgot. Two questions.”

“Yes?”

“One, how’s the, er… dryness situation?”

“Oh… much improved, thank you. And you?”

“Same. Anathema left a message today… you can listen to it later.”

“And the second question?”

“Where would you like to go to dinner tonight?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s face became dreamy, as though he were fantasizing about clouds made of marshmallows, and baby cows leaping from one to the next. “An excellent question. I think I’d like to try Mozzafiato.”

“Ah – on Peter Street. Opened about three months ago.”

“Yes – you know it?” Aziraphale asked, with some surprise.

Crowley smirked. “I pay attention to all of the cute little restaurants opening in Soho. Can’t think why.”

“Well, rumour has it they have a lobster and butternut squash ravioli that is absolutely to die for!” Aziraphale exclaimed with narrowed, greedy eyes, and pursed lips.

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, crossing his arms, and leaning against the doorjamb. The avaricious look on Aziraphale’s face made him suddenly very, very interested in what his angel was saying. Laura Minahan could wait a few minutes. He seized upon the opportunity to keep his adorable companion talking on this very stimulating topic. “Doesn’t seem like a good combo to me, but what do I know?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “It’s a wonderful marriage of sea and turf! Think of it… a rather harsh, pungent, flavour of lobster, coupled with the earthen-sweet tones of squash, and how they’d complement one another. The textures must be a fascinating juxtaposition! They’re tied together with the fresh, yeasty flavour of thick, homemade pasta, surrounding it, and inescapable in every bite.”

Crowley couldn’t help but feel another twinge of desire, hearing this. Again, he refrained from doing or saying anything lascivious… for the moment.

“What did you do, memorise the menu?” Crowley asked, again, with the smirk.

“I do that sometimes, yes,” Aziraphale said. “That is, I memorise ingredients. The rhetoric is all mine.”

“Indeed. So, what kind of sauce do they put over it?”

Aziraphale looked at his partner with delightful suspicion. “Why do you care?”

With delightful guilt, Crowley responded, “Well, you know. I’m human now. Have to eat.”

“Mm. Is that right?”

“Yes, of course. Why else would I care to hear you talk about food, angel?”

“You’re a lusty old demon?”

Crowley stifled a giggle. “Tell me about the sauce.”

Aziraphale came around the table and now stood in front of Crowley, just outside of arm’s reach. His face lit up like Times Square as he talked, and his hands gestured as though he were conducting a symphony. Occasionally, they clenched, as a particularly delectable thought crossed over his lips. 

“The sauce is a creamy tomato – a marinara and alfredo mix. Richer than a traditional arrabbiata. Another lovely marriage of opposing origins – plant and animal. Hardly the first time it’s been done, but why split hairs over perfection? And, there are a couple of fascinating twists! The sauce is highlighted with goat cheese, and instead of making the red sauce with Chianti, they’ve cooked the tomatoes in Guinness! It gives them a tender, smoky flavour!”

“I’ll just bet it does.”

“The tomatoes are cooked along with red peppers and sweet onions, and the whole thing is topped with shaved almonds! Oh, I simply can’t wait to try it!”

“I can’t wait to watch you try it,” Crowley muttered, looking over his insatiable food-lover with unabashed lust in his piercing brown eyes. “Shall I make a reservation? Eight p.m. good for you?”

Aziraphale seemed to consider Crowley for a few moments. Then he asked, “Do you think you’ll be out looking at flats into the evening?”

“Possibly. Why?”

“Er… I would like to encourage you to stay out until at least eight, considering places for us to live, that we can look at together at a later date. And we’ll plan on dinner at eight, like you said. Only, instead of at Mozzafiato, how about we have dinner at home. I’ll order in.”

Crowley frowned, with a little hint of whimsy. “What are you planning, angel?”

“Just… something. Can you stay out until eight?”

“I can.”

“Wonderful. Everything will be ready by then.”

Crowley was intrigued, delighted, and turned-on by everything that had happened in the last two or three minutes, and this prospect was proving no less intriguing…

“What’s brought this on?” he asked.

“I’m in love with you, and I enjoy taking initiative,” Aziraphale answered, primly. “Aren’t you late for your appointment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: shameless plug for comments coming.... now!
> 
> Even gratuitous comments just to keep me going, it's ALL appreciated! It's hard to overstate just how much. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Ignorance of Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has not been blind to certain aspects of Crowley's affection for him. Multiple conversations with his partner in the last couple of weeks have built up enough in Aziraphale's mind to cause him to hatch a sexy plan!
> 
> This is where Aziraphale preps for the evening's naughty magic. We also take a bit of an exploration back in time, into the history of Aziraphale's sexual desires, such as they were. (In fact, this chapter is a bit like chapter 1, and shows Aziraphale's side of things.)
> 
> He's all alone, yet it's a bit smutty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context on Aziraphale's historical attitude toward his own bodily functions of pleasure, you might like to refer back to chapters 8 and 13 of "The Third Domain."
> 
> For context on what he is planning for tonight, you might like to refer back to chapter 19 of that same story. It will also explain the existence of the "Icicles" box and the thing inside. ;-)

As expected, when Aziraphale arrived home, the flat was empty. He had asked Crowley to stay out until eight p.m., as he had a few things to prepare. The ex-demon had had his curiosity piqued by this request, and had readily agreed. He and the estate agent had things to do, if the couple were thinking of moving house, and it’s not as though Crowley had ever wanted for ideas on how to spend an otherwise unoccupied afternoon and early evening in London.

Aziraphale had already spent two or three hours fussily readying the relevant areas of their residence, the sun was on its way down, and the flat was mostly dark. In the kitchen, there were two aluminium containers of Mozzafiato’s squash and lobster ravioli in the oven, along with a small thermal paper bag, keeping warm. The bag from the restaurant was sitting prominently out on the counter, so that anyone who walked into the room could make no mistake about where the food had come from. The table was set, including a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and glasses. Several candles were ready to light, as soon as the former-demon-in-question arrived.

As an afterthought, Aziraphale had written the words “light my fire” on a Post-it note, and placed it next to the candle on the decorative table in the entryway. He knew it was camp, but that it would make Crowley chuckle. It now lay there, along with the wand-like lighter he’d purchased on the way home. In the old days, Crowley could have waved his hand over the wick, and produced a flame, but these days, they relied upon an apparatus with a small amount of combustible fuel, and a mechanism that made friction. 

Human ingenuity never ceased to amaze.

He had showered (cleansed, uneventfully), shaved, and chosen a set of clean clothes for the evening. But he did not get dressed yet, because there was one crucial thing left to do before he could do so.

Still just wearing a towel round his waist, he searched Crowley’s nightstand for something in particular, and found it straight away.

Just looking at it gave him a cool chill, and then a hot surge of lust.

It was a white box, labelled “Icicles,” and he knew that it contained a spade-shaped piece of glass, used for… well, it was an implement of pleasure. Crowley had used it to, in his words, "stretch and train" Aziraphale's body a bit. But before that, he had narrated a fantasy scenario in which they use the piece of glass for a slightly different purpose. Crowley had mused over the term ‘anal plug,; and how it was rather blunt and vulgar a name for something so lovely, that could make one feel so much, and so good. And just now, Aziraphale reckoned he wasn’t wrong. 

He removed the glass from the box, and just bouncing it in his hand made him feel a bit naughty and abandoned, and he felt a now very familiar twinge between his legs.  
That twinge wasn’t what he wanted – not yet, anyway. However, he had figured that a little bit of this was to be expected, considering what he was about to do… and then what would happen after that.

He took a deep breath, and forced down the tightening in his groin, the desire. 

He set the box aside, held the glass in one hand, and with the other, he reached out for the rapidly-diminishing, tiny bottle of lube sitting on the night table, between Crowley’s dark glasses and a lamp. He laid them on the comforter, shed his towel, and lay down right where he was, on the left side of the bed.

Crowley’s side of the bed.

The blanket beneath his bum and back, as well as the pillow, it all smelled of Crowley.

This did not help Aziraphale to keep his lust in check.

Again, he took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself.

He looked down at his naked form, and felt lascivious and indulgent – he was nude upon the very surface where his lover slept, and had slept, dreaming about him, for years before they’d become lovers. He felt the air circulating over his exposed skin, he had a tumescent phallus, and the entire experience caused him to give an involuntary moan. He had never, ever done anything like this before - being so intentionally, decadently naked on his own, and certainly never with such wicked intentions.

But the arousal, the excitement was all too soon, and he continued to try to force down the thoughts, coax the blood away from his groin, and his body into a more Zen-like state.

It was quite a familiar state of affairs for him, in fact. 

When he and Crowley had had their first ‘encounter’ together, he had reported that he’d never seen his own cock standing up before. And that had been true. But only because whenever it happened, he would close his eyes, meditate, and will the unruly appendage back into submission. Over the years, he’d become quite expert at denying his erections, through force of will.

On that same occasion, he had also reported that he had never had an orgasm before (though he went on to have two that night, literally at Crowley’s hands). This was also true. But only because of the aforementioned acts of will-power he would exert, in order to remain a chaste (if imperfect) angel.

There had been hints of various un-angelic feelings in Crowley’s presence for thousands of years. But Aziraphale reached a kind of terrifying clarity one night in Rome, about two thousand years ago. It was a clarity he acknowledged, then quickly dismissed for another handful of centuries. This, in fact, was a pattern of behaviour that would plague most of the past two millennia, in the friendship (or whatever it was called) between Crowley and Aziraphale. By then, the angel had come to terms with the fact that Crowley was not "his personal demon" to slay, which is to say, he had not been laid as a trap (directly or indirectly) for Aziraphale. He'd leaned into spending time with the demon on occasion, but would never truly admit to why.

That day in Rome, he’d spied Crowley sitting at what might today be called a bar. He said he’d simply popped into town for a quick temptation, and Aziraphale, who was on an actual (rare) holiday at the time, told him he’d come to try out a new restaurant, where the chef had managed to innovate a new way to serve oysters. For some ungodly reason which Aziraphale would never understand, he’d used the phrase, “Let me tempt you,” in order to convince Crowley to try the new restaurant with him. The demon had allowed the angel to, indeed, tempt him, and they’d spent the evening gorging themselves on oysters, wine, and conversation.

When Aziraphale had returned to his room that night, the scent of Crowley was in his clothing. A powerful aphrodisiac was running in his veins (about which he’d had no idea at the time), he was loose with alcohol, and had spent a lovely evening with a flirty friend who had always had him feeling a bit conflicted as an angel.

Perhaps inevitably, Crowley ran through his mind like a sexy gazelle whilst he performed a few nightly ablutions. The way the demon moved demanded attention. His yellow eyes were penetrating. His mouth was pretty enough to have been sculpted for the express purpose of slurping oysters. He used scandalous language that delighted Aziraphale in spite of himself, he was cuttingly amusing, clearly intelligent, and looked at the angel like piece of meat. 

Crowley was an intoxicating package – he had literally been designed as such – and naïvely, Aziraphale had thought he could simply rest for a few hours, perhaps sober up, and get on with his life.

Not all of him would rest, though. There was one pesky part of his body that would not lie down.

As he slipped off his shoes, just before pulling his toga over his head, he noticed a protuberance below the waist. He was not, however, naïve enough not to realise what it was, but he did, foolishly run back over his thoughts from the last few hours, to explore what could possibly be causing it.

Well, the thoughts proved so pleasant, that he couldn’t bring himself to stop thinking them, and he found that his erection (not his first, by the way, merely the most powerful thus far) had only grown more insistent. Of course, Crowley’s mouth, his words, the swerve of his hips, the hunger in his predator’s eyes… 

“Ugh,” Aziraphale said to himself at that time, but it came out as more of a moan than an exclamation of disgust. 

Which only made things worse.

There was an ache, and he had no idea how to relieve it.

More to the point, he had some idea of how to relieve it, but had no idea what would happen next, whether it might hurt more than the ache, or whether relieving the ache would cause more aching, which would lead to more relieving...

But he did have some measure of curiosity. So, just to see how his body might react, he reached down with one hand, and ran his palm over the annoying member, through the fabric of his clothing. No skin-to-skin, no grasping, no looking. Still the feeling was so painful and pleasurable at the same time, all he could do was moan. He had no words, no recourse…

Except that he realised as he rubbed a bit longer that the desire was growing. His member was growing harder. The discomfort was only going to become more unbearable, unless…

Well, no, he couldn’t go there. Out of the question.

“Blast it!” he had hissed, alone in his Roman room. He stopped touching himself, and resolved to stay in-check.

He had always been taught that angels were sexless unless they cared to make the effort, so… well, this was exasperating indeed! What was happening here? What was this business with having to make an effort to be sexless?

He kept his eyes closed, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he was an angel and the object of his lust was a demon, no less! How inappropriate! And that demon had been moulded as a temptation for all Eartly creatures, and he had fallen victim to that ruse, like any common human! For shame!

He was Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, a servant of the Almighty! His corporeal form was merely a vehicle for him to move about, so that he could perform his great works on Earth. It was not a heaving, throbbing mass of flesh for him to play with, to sully, to let be taken over by out-of-control human angst. He was stronger of will than that, and certainly stronger than a demon. The fact that he felt longing and lust was merely a by-product of being in a humanoid wrapping, with flesh, bone, blood, and muscle. And anyway, it was a borrowed body. It, like everything else about him, belonged to God.

God, God, God.

Great doses of this pious self-admonishment, coupled with meditation techniques he’d learned during a brief foray into the Far East, worked. His erection abated, and he was able to venture out into the Forum, and play a few games, before retiring once again for a bit of a rest.

The following day, he tried to forget the incident, even as he ran across a dodgy, skittish Crowley who couldn’t wait to get away from him. Just as well, he thought – angels and demons don’t mix. Already he had begun to discount the demon’s role in the previous night’s dilemma.

From time to time over the next two millennia, he would finish a visit with Crowley, and similar things would happen. As best he could, he meditated and willed away the lust, without actually acknowledging within himself where it had come from. He swatted away memories of that infernally tempting mouth, the walk, the wicked smile, without dwelling, and while remaining within the confines of total denial. It was the only way he could survive it.

Even more bizarre, he felt, were the times when his body would spontaneously react merely to thoughts of the demon – not even to his presence, or erstwhile presence. 

It didn’t happen every time Aziraphale thought of Crowley, far from it – how exhausting would have have been? But it was often enough that anyone other than an angel who desired to stay in the good graces of God would have realised there was some truly deep desire at work.

\-------------------------------------------

And so, Aziraphale drew on past experiences in order to keep himself under control tonight, lying in a barely-contained frenzy on Crowley's side of the bed. Although, now, holding back had nothing to do with an angelic ethic and/or being beholden to an Almighty God. It had more to do with not ruining what he hoped would turn out to be a scorching hot evening with his mortal beloved.

He drizzled the last of the lubricant on the tip of the spade-shaped glass, and did as he’d seen Crowley do, which is to say, spread it sensually all over the implement, with his entire hand.

This action left him breathless, and his cock throbbed. What he really wanted was fuck that lubed-up hand, to give himself a good pumping, and watch the white spurts emerge as the urgency tore away from his body. It could be, he knew, glorious. He could see the appeal of having that experience one one’s own, now that he was here. But that wasn’t why he was here.

And so, he continued for a few moments simply to stroke the spade. He channelled his desire into this harmless little act, though he moaned in frustration, and his hips involuntarily pressed up and down, his dick rigidly pointing upwards, piercing the air, looking for purchase.

Ugh, this wouldn’t do at all. At this rate, he’d never accomplish what he’d come here to accomplish.

“Okay, Aziraphale, just relax,” he said aloud, to himself.

He placed the greasy spade on his chest, and his hands clasped over his stomach, and he began to meditate.

After several minutes, he was more relaxed, though upon opening his eyes, he realised, his erection was far too adamant to be expected to abate already.

That was all right. What he needed was relaxation and pliancy in other areas of his body.

He took a deep breath, fought down some nervousness and bent his knees. He reached over to the right grabbed his own pillow, and shoved it underneath his lower back. He then took up the spade in his hand, and reached down, playing at his rear entrance with the head of the smooth, slick tool.

He moaned with the deliciousness of the sensation. He slipped it back and forth a few times, then at last, put pressure on it, and the tip slipped past his opening. He grunted. He whispered, “Oh, yes,” and pushed a bit further. He could not help but move it back and forth a few times, closing his eyes with the licentious pleasure of it, fucking himself gently, running the head back and forth over his prostate, and moaning hard with each pass. But, best laid plans… before he knew it, he was thrusting the thing in and out, no longer gently, and his hips were, once again, involuntarily thrusting into the air.

He stopped short, took a deep breath, admonished himself for going too far, and then pressed the tool all the way inside of himself, and let go. What was left outside of his body was the base of the plug, too wide to enter him, flush flat against his bum.

He lay there for another few minutes, panting, trying to get hold of his libido.

The fire had become so hot and bright, his thinking had become so addled, that though he had come here to insert the spade, and for that purpose only, he now wondered… 

Would it really be the worst thing in the world, if he wrapped his hand around his dick right now, and tugged until he came all over himself, and then cleaned up, dressed, and executed the evening with Crowley as planned? 

Probably not.

Hadn’t they learned that this human body could perform at least two sexual acts per night, especially if it was given an hour’s rest, and plenty of stimulation on the second go? And wouldn’t he have plenty of stimulation on the second go?

They had, and he would.

Would Crowley be upset?

On the contrary, he would likely be ravenously aroused by the thought of it.

Wouldn’t it calm him down a bit, and make going through with tonight’s plan easier? Wouldn’t he be able to push forward and be suave and knowing, rather than buzzing with desire and anxiety?

Yes.

But… wouldn’t it be exponentially more satisfying if he held off now, and waited to orgasm along with Crowley? Wouldn’t it cause his body to absolutely spark when the time came to begin their little evening of debauchery, if he didn’t come now?

It would.

And that was enough.

Aziraphale turned to his left, and stood up quickly. He replaced the pillow on his side of the bed. He discarded the bottle of lube in the little rubbish bin beside the night stand, regretting a bit that he hadn't had the foresight to pick up another bottle, but then reckoned they might not need it...

Then picked up the Icicles box, and brought it with him, along with his towel, across the hall to his own bedroom.

From there, he dressed, and decided to gift-wrap the empty box. When that was done, he brought the gift to the kitchen. 

Dressing had helped calm him, but the gift-wrapping had caused his cock to throb again… he tried meditation one more time, and now that he was in his clothes – the usual light-coloured suit, with velveteen waistcoat, tartan bowtie and dress shirt, it worked a bit better. In spite of the spade, the swelling subsided.

He set the little gift on top of Crowley’s plate. On his own plate, he emptied the warmed gourmet ravioli from Mozzafiato’s. He poured wine for both of them.

It was now 7:55.

The front door opened and closed, but he resisted the urge to run to greet his partner. If nothing else, the spade made it difficult to do anything too quickly, as it provided a heavy amount of stimulation, each time he shifted at all.

He heard the click of the wand lighter, then saw a warm glow coming from the foyer. 

Crowley appeared in the kitchen just then, with the lighter in his hand. “Hi angel. Sorry I’m early. Hope you’re ready for me.”

Unfortunately, the effects of Aziraphale’s meditation dissipated when the scent and scene and sound of his beautiful companion penetrated the room. Aziraphale’s calm had been hanging by a thread anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold it! Don't hate me! 
> 
> The next chapter will be much more (ahem) satisfying, and I'll try to get it posted asap!
> 
> I'm still receiving precious few comments... let me know what you're thinking, folks! It keeps me motivated to continue! Thank you so much for reading!


	6. Scrumptious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has already made all the plans for his idea, to give Crowley a scorching hot evening (and showed an incredible amount of restraint in doing so!). Things are prepped, Crowley is home, and their favourite Earthly pleasures will serve them well.
> 
> And, in case you couldn't tell, there's smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you were mad at me about the cliffhanger in the previous chapter, I hope that this somewhat alleviates things for you. Our heroes, in the end, can breathe again. At least, temporarily.
> 
> Again, if you would like some context on this chapter, you might refer back to chapter 19 of "The Third Domain."

Crowley had appeared in the kitchen doorway, five minutes early. "I hope you're ready for me," he had said, smiling, with a wand-style lighter in his hand.

"As it happens, I am," Aziraphale said, smiling back, aware that any equilibrium he had acquired was now dead. His body was on-edge, and he didn't have to look down to know that his arousal was now totally apparent.

This was, of course, not lost on Crowley, who looked him over with intrigue in his eyes. "Indeed, you are," he lilted, letting his eyes linger at bulging crotch of the well-tailored glen-tartan trousers. "What have you been up to, you imperfect angel, you?"

Aziraphale caught a chill from the tone and words coming from Crowley's mouth. But he ignored the question, and said, "I could use a hand with the candles."

"Okay," Crowley said, lightly, while Aziraphale turned to finish clearing the last of the unneeded debris off the kitchen counter.

Crowley crossed the kitchen to the table, and lit the two silver-rimmed jar candles Aziraphale had chosen for the occasion. He picked up the glass of wine that had been poured and left at his place-setting, and took a hearty drink. He also noted the little gift sitting upon his plate. Next, he eyed the plate of food on his right.

"Mozzafiato's," he said, knowingly, as he had seen the bag on the counter, though hadn't registered it until now. He turned and faced Aziraphale. "Butternut squash and lobster ravioli?"

"Of course," Aziraphale sang.

"Okay," Crowley conceded, with a smirk. "What's the plan? I see it's only dinner for one, at the moment."

Aziraphale gestured toward the table, inviting him to take a seat, but not at the place set for dinner. 

Crowley obliged.

"The plan is," Aziraphale said, coming up behind Crowley, and draping one hand across the collar of his jacket. "I thought I would indulge in one of my favourite creature comforts, whilst you indulge in one of your favourite creature comforts, and we'll see where it takes us."

"Where it takes us," Crowley echoed. "All right."

"But first…" Aziraphale began. He did not finish the phrase. He merely picked up the gift from the plate in front of Crowley, and handed it to him.

"You bought me a gift?" Crowley asked, taking it, looking up at him, a bit moved.

"Actually, no," Aziraphale answered. "Open it."

Crowley tore the paper, and could immediately see the "Icicles" insignia on the box, indicating a glass sex toy. "Oh, angel, I like it already," he breathed. "But… you didn't buy it?"

"No," came the answer. "It's the one we already own."

"Interesting," Crowley smirked. When the paper was completely off and discarded on the floor, Crowley opened the box and looked inside, only to find it empty. "Okay. The spade isn't in here."

"No."

"Where is it?"

A wickedly coquettish smile spread over Aziraphale's face that made Crowley's blood burn. Because, all at once, he realised where the glass plug was, why his lovely angel had had a raging erection all along, and what was about to happen.

This scenario had been concocted as a fantasy by Crowley, a couple of weeks prior, when he was excitedly opining what he would like to do to his angel, if given the chance. Aziraphale had always been an excellent listener.

Aziraphale sat carefully down at the place he'd set for himself. It was the first time he'd sat, since inserting the spade. He eased his weight into the chair, as pressure on the spade brought about a myriad of explosive sensations. He moaned unabashedly as he did so, his eyes practically rolling back in his head.

It took at least thirty seconds of adjustment and low, sensual groans to get situated, and when he finally did, he looked at Crowley with eyes glazed-over, and a half-inebriated expression.

"Oh, I love you so much," Crowley said, softly, sweetly, gutturally. His voice practically trembled with excitement, passion, and especially admiration.

By this time, of course, after watching Aziraphale move and moan and settle and bristle, and generally interact with the sensations in his nether regions, Crowley's trousers were bulging like an overstuffed cannolo.

Aziraphale peered into his ravioli. "I can't wait to try this," he said. "Remember all those things I told you today, about how the dish is made, and all the exquisite variations they've innovated, to improve upon the traditional plate of ravioli?"

"Oh, yes," Crowley answered, leaning back in his chair, getting comfortable. "Every part of me remembers."

"Well, I spoke to the chef today while I was picking up the food, and it seems they've added yet another incredible twist!"

"Yeah?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Cayenne pepper," he said, his eyes bright with lust. "But only a hint of it. I am absolutely jazzed for all of those exacting and elegant flavours to come alive in my mouth!"

"Ngk," Crowley groaned, letting his head loll backwards. And that's when he began to rub the bulge at the front of his trousers. He used his palm, stroked through the denim.

Aziraphale picked up his spoon, and dipped it in the sauce only, slid it into his mouth, then back out again. He pursed his lips sensually, as he had always done when tasting something delectable.

"Mmm, what a treat," he mumbled, then licked his lips.

Crowley could not help but agree, as he give his hard shaft a squeeze.

Next, a ravioli became impaled upon a fork, and made its way into an eager, meticulous mouth. A moan came forth from that mouth as the flavours and sensations mixed and matched upon the tastebuds.

He savoured the combinations, the symphony of ingredients… and moaned again. "So good…mmm…"

Then he licked his lips greedily, and Crowley nearly hit the ceiling. He moaned in kind, and pressed harder against his cock, through his trousers. It occurred to him then to wonder if he'd make it all the way through this meal.

"I think I detect black pepper as well as Cayenne," Aziraphale said. He closed his eyes, and said, "Unless I'm in too deeply to be able to tell the difference."

He took another bite, closed his eyes, and chewed rather voraciously, smacking his lips.

"Oh, it's definitely black pepper – it's unmistakable against the squash – and it's…" he stopped short, and then wriggled in his chair a bit. He gave a little grunt of pleasure, letting anyone listening know that the sex toy lodged inside of him had shifted in a way that he enjoyed immensely. He grunted, "…it's divine."

"Oh, fuck!" Crowley whined, tearing open the snap and zip of his black jeans, unable to manage anymore restraint.

He was just about to yank his suffering cock out into the open, and show his gourmand of a companion just how much this particular creature comfort excited him. He was champing at the bit to begin pumping it straight away, to watch with interest as the exquisite Aziraphale partook of a gourmet meal, without having to control his sexual fervour…

But he realised in those few split seconds, this was actually semi-auspicious. It was a moment he (and his cock) had waited for, for millennia. How many times had he watched the angel devour a plate with similar gusto, and depending upon the circumstances, dearly longed to unzip himself under the tablecloth and fuck his hand, with the rest of the restaurant patrons none the wiser? How many times had he, instead, kept his hands in plain sight, intentionally, just to remove the temptation? He'd taken millions of ounces of wine, coffee, and tea this way, making the appearance of drinking in the libations, but really drinking in Aziraphale.

And now, he was going to get to do it – to pleasure himself as he desired, while watching his angel eat! He also knew that the latter had a glass spade in his arse, that was giving him a sharp, specific sort of ecstasy, in the midst of it all. He knew that Aziraphale could, every now and then, feel a little shift or tilt that had the potential to give him eye-watering pleasure, and enhance the sensory experience for him, as well.

So, it was not a moment to be taken lightly. He slowed himself, sat with trousers agape for a few moments, and watched as yet another perfectly-crafted ravioli made its way into the mouth of his angel. Aziraphale have a sigh of contentment, fluttered an eyebrow at Crowley, and chewed happily. Crowley then reached inside his pants, and pulled free a long, aching, distended member, leaking precome, and throbbing like anything. He casually spread the clear liquid over the head with two fingers, and leaned forward to take a sip of wine.

He now coolly leaned back in the chair, with a perfect view of Aziraphale, while he held his drink in one hand, and his hard dick in the other. Aziraphale continued to enjoy the daylights out of his dinner. He ate another ravioli, and then another. His moans, groans, expressions of "mmm, so good…" escaping every now and then, his commentary on the deliciousness of the food, the details of the recipe, it all kept Crowley going. It all kept him feeling tight and coiled and desirous and ready to burst. Each little gesture of enjoyment from Aziraphale gave just as much enjoyment to Crowley. He stroked lazily for a while, watching sardonically, sipping his wine, occasionally making suggestive comments.

And then, at last, Aziraphale popped the last ravioli into his mouth, giving an "Mmm," as he ate it. When he was finished, he stood up, and Crowley saw that his erection had grown even from where it had been before.

"Look at you, angel," Crowley practically panted. "Seems like you're ready to blow."

"Ah-ah," Aziraphale tutted, opening the oven door, and bringing a small, thermal paper bag back to the table. "Not until I've mopped up all of the juice."

"Ugh, you're killing me," Crowley complained.

Aziraphale sat down again, but this time not so slowly. He'd got used to the glass toy in his arse, was relishing in it, and now dared to sit down rather hard.

"Ooh!" escaped from him as he did so. "Oh, that feels so wicked..."

"Nnnnngk!" came from his companion on his left, leaning his head back again, tortured with the knowledge and the sight and the sounds…

Aziraphale reached into the bag and pulled loose an eight-inch by eight-inch square of crispy, aromatic rosemary bread. He broke off a piece, and began soaking up the luscious sauce that was left on his plate.

Something about this action pushed Crowley to the brink, and made him half-growl, half-hiss, "Shit!" and set the empty wine glass on the table. He then gave himself over to his cock and his hand. His eyes narrowed as he watched intently every detail of his partner's indulgence. He studied the scene, and started pumping hard.

And so, with his fist tight, teeth clenched, eyes on Aziraphale's bread, as another soaking, dripping morsel was sucked into his mouth, Crowley wanked.

And it was the best goddamn wank of his very, very long life.

Until he realised that Aziraphale's body was moving. Or was it?

Yes, yes it was. The prim, proper, former angel was moving his hips back and forth, bearing down on the tool in his rear chute.

He was now watching Aziraphale moon, moan, and bliss out with fine foods, while he secretly fucked himself.

And THEN it became the best goddamn wank of Crowley's very, very long life.

Orgasm was rising like a wave threatening to crash on the shore, with a mountain of exploding white foam…

And then, Somebody help him, a bit of the greasy, slippery sauce dripped down Aziraphale's chin, and a litany of expletives came tumbling out of Crowley's mouth, while his hand moved faster, and his teeth clenched harder.

The gourmet tongue creeped out of the shiny, sensual lips and licked it up, and Crowley grunted low and rough, "Oh, angel…"

"Mm?" asked Aziraphale, mopping up more sauce with more bread, still moving his hips, his eyes glazed over in total, faraway ecstasy.

Crowley now slunk down a bit further in the chair, leaned back all the way, and pounded hard. It was a show now, and Aziraphale watched it with clouded, lusty interest. Their eyes met almost accidentally, and with a hearty, obscene groan, thick ropes of cream spurted out of Crowley's throbbing dick, and splashed all over the black cashmere jumper he was wearing.

"Fuck, angel!" he snarled, almost pained, as more spurts of come kept coming forth, landing all over his fist, his abdomen, the v-shape of his open trousers…

And with one final grunt, he pumped out the last drop, and gave a sigh, and with red-hot smouldering embers in his eyes, he focused on Aziraphale once more.

His partner seemed to be panting as well, was flushed and opening his eyes slowly. He licked his lips heartily, and said, "That was scrumptious."

"Oh yes. Yes it was," Crowley panted. Then, "Angel, please tell me you didn't hold back for me."

"I tried to hold back a bit longer, but alas, I was unable," Aziraphale admitted.

"We came together?" Crowley said, with an exhausted laugh.

"Indeed," Aziraphale said. "I believe there's a song that has the line, 'what a lovely way to burn.'"

"Mmm… 'Fever,'" Crowley lilted, still panting a bit. "A wise lyric if ever there was one."

There was a pause, just before Aziraphale stood, and asked, "Are you hungry, my very human love? I did order you a dinner, of course. And I think you should eat well, because I don't believe I'm quite done with you yet tonight."

Those words gave Crowley a frisson, even though he'd just finished himself off. And now that Aziraphale was standing, he could see why, perhaps, he'd said he wasn't done with Crowley.

That is to say, the fussy Victorian trousers were still buttoned up, and there was a wet spot expanding in the front. Once again, Aziraphale had restrained himself and ended up containing his orgasm within his clothes.

Something about this was rather delicious to Crowley, thinking of his beatific lover shuddering and releasing pulses of salty, milky come into those expensive linen pants and fastidious antique trousers. In a way, it was filthier and more audacious than losing it all out in the open, as he himself had. But perhaps it was not exactly the most satisfying of experiences...

"Aziraphale, why did you try to hold back?" Crowley asked, moving forward to press his hand to the spreading spot.

Aziraphale smiled a bit. "I've been holding myself on the edge for a couple of hours. Well, really, for a couple of millennia, but for the purposes of this conversation…"

"Why?"

"Well, inserting the Icicle without achieving climax was quite a task," Aziraphale said, with almost a comically proper tone.

Crowley smirked. "Mm, I'll just bet it was. Will you tell me about it?"

"Perhaps later," Aziraphale conceded, cautiously. "But for now, why don't you put on a clean shirt and return to the table?"

"Yes, sir," Crowley said lightly.

"I will serve you dinner, and keep you company while you eat."

"Wonderful. Thank you, angel."

"And when you're finished, I'll be asking you to do a few very immodest things to make me happy. Does that sound all right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.
> 
> Okay, friends, here's what I need to know: Continue the kitchen adventure, and see what immodest things they get up to after dinner (which would be, of course, totally gratuitous, and slightly mess with the structure of the story), or move on to the next creature comfort (which will EVENTUALLY lead back to sex, but not right away)? 
> 
> Do you have a preference? If you've never left a comment on this story before, now's a good time to do it, and let me know what you'd like to read next. I'm honestly torn!
> 
> Thank you for reading - hoping to hear from you!!


	7. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kitchen adventure continues.
> 
> Wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, I decided to add an extra chapter of semi-gratuitous kitchen smut for our ineffable duo. It made sense, in that Aziraphale's evening has been an exercise in restraint, and I realized that he really deserved to be unrestrained!
> 
> It took me a while because my first draft didn't feel organic... it went through three iterations before I landed here. I had promised myself I wouldn't let it dim the "complexity" of the story, such as it is (heh, whatevs). In the end, it doesn't take away from our favorite pair enjoying the cozier, non-sexy creature comforts... it just gives readers a bit more to chew on, if you will. :-)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Crowley re-appeared in the kitchen five minutes later, in a clean white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. It was one of the very few occasions when Aziraphale had seen him in anything other than black, grey, or a splash of red

“You look very fresh-faced,” the former angel commented.

Crowley shrugged, looking himself over. “Yeah, well… I’ve been obliged to own a wide variety of different costumes for the temptation business.” 

“Almost as though not everyone immediately trusts a handsome man in black, with dark glasses he won’t remove.”

“I know, it’s mental,” Crowley smirked. “Anyway, I figured I should put on something I don’t wear too often, ‘cause kitchens are unpredictable places. Also, no shoes nor pants. Just, you know… in case a quick escape is needed.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “A quick escape. I like that.”

“Thought you might.”

“Would you like to sit?”

There was now a plate of gourmet ravioli at Crowley’s spot, and he took his seat once again.

“Hungry?” Aziraphale asked.

“Actually, yes.”

Crowley sampled the fare from Mozzafiato’s. “This is incredibly tasty, I must agree,” Crowley said, swallowing. “But I think all of the nuances are lost on me. It’s just really good ravioli.”

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said. “I wouldn’t expect you to notice everything. I’ve got millennia of experience with sussing out subtle flavours and observing how they mingle. If you’d like, I can teach you to do the same.”

“I’m afraid I’d never make it through even one lesson with my clothes completely on,” Crowley said, with another naughty smirk, before continuing to dine.

“Indeed. While we’re on the topic, I must say, Crowley, I was surprised by the strength of your reaction. Earlier,” Aziraphale commented, while refilling both wine glasses.

“Really?"

"Well..."

"I told you that watching you with food was a huge torturous turn-on, and I’m not exactly a shrinking violet with my emotions, especially lately. What did you expect?”

Aziraphale sat down in his usual chair, and the way he eased himself down with a little bit of a pleasured groan temporarily derailed Crowley from his composure.

“Well, what transpired was more or less what I expected,” Aziraphale said. “Just, perhaps, with more… oh, I don’t know, demonstrative fervour?”

Crowley smiled delightedly. “Demonstrative fervour? You do have a way with words, Prince Albert. So, what, did you think I’d be more civilised about it?” He took another bite.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale responded, sheepishly, turning his eyes down and blushing adorably.

Crowley locked his eyes on Aziraphale’s incredibly expressive face, and practically growled, “You slurped up a serving of cream sauce rather noisily, licked the oil off your lips and chin, and moaned over it like a fucking porn star. All the while, I know you’ve got a raging hard-on, and a glass cock up your arse… there was nothing civilised about any of it, angel. Nothing.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale conceded, softly. “I suppose I hadn’t thought it through if I truly didn’t expect you to… well, all out in the open like you did.”

“If we were going to do it, I reckoned we’d better do it right.”

Crowley’s body had not yet entirely cooled from the experience, and he was finding himself becoming aroused once more by the idea of it, the memory, and the very real, current knowledge that the “glass cock” was still lodged inside of his lover, doing its very stimulating work.

“Still got the spade in?” he asked, eyes ablaze with renewed vigour, and already knowing the answer.

“Mm-hm,” came the half-moaned reply.

“Any particular reason?” Crowley asked, taking another bite, lustily wondering what the response might be.

“Other than, it feels bloody lovely?”

“Touché. I suppose there doesn’t need to be any more reason than that.”

“Well, since you’ve asked, we’ll call it a place-holder.”

“I see,” Crowley practically sang. He felt quite tingly.

“I gave you something you enjoyed, yes? With the… food, and the…”

“You gave me something I’ve literally wanted since the Holy Roman Empire. You made me burst like a bottle of champagne in a paint shaker, without ever touching me. So, yes.”

“Well, I’ve already mentioned that I intend for you to do some things that I might enjoy. I’m far too imperfect to make this evening all about you.”

“Anything you want,” Crowley breathing heavily. “I’m yours. Unless it’s an Archangel roleplay, then I’m out.” 

“No nothing like that,” Aziraphale assured him, with a slight smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but one of the glass spade’s purposes is to make certain lovemaking overtures unnecessary, isn’t it?”

“Do you mean that it’s spreading open your tight, angelic hole, so I can fuck you without fingering you first?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat, tempering the surprise, and the surge of lust, he felt at Crowley's vulgar language.

“Do you also mean that you’re crawling out of your skin with anticipation, because you want to get bent over this table and jackhammered until you’re begging for respite?”

“Yes. So glad that I can always count on you to take the direct approach.”

“Do you mean that it makes you hard when I talk like that?”

“You’re quite the adept translator, Crowley.” They now made eye-contact over the table. “Finish your dinner. Quickly. Please.”

\---------------------------------------

But Crowley did not hurry. He forced himself to take his time, though he would have loved to strip off his clothes right then, and mess up the table with insistent banging, indelicate movements, sweat, and other bodily fluids. It was all he could think about, as a matter of fact, but they had all night. And he knew they both could use a sliver more recovery time before diving in again.

But when he was finally finishing up, and draining the wine out of his glass, Aziraphale leaned forward, and grasped the plate. “May I take this away?”

“Please,” Crowley said, as though he were feeling in any way civilised.

Aziraphale crossed to the sink, ran the water and rinsed the plate, then returned to the table to gather up the thermal bag that had once contained rosemary bread, along with the napkins and silverware.

Meanwhile, Crowley had taken his wine glass, and the bottle, to the kitchen island, and stood for a moment, amused, while his partner fussed over the tidy details.

When Aziraphale crossed back to the table for the third time with a wet cloth, Crowley crossed as well. He came up behind, reached around and took the cleaning implement out of Aziraphale’s hand, setting it aside. He pressed a growing erection into his companion’s backside, ran his hands over the arms of the antique beige suit, and said, “Do you really want to wipe off the table just now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Good,” Crowley responded, then peeled the Victorian coat over his companion’s shoulders and off. Then, with his lips just a centimetre from Aziraphale’s ear, he whispered, “Would you like to get out of your shirt and waistcoat?”

“All right,” came the tremulous response.

“Good. And unhook your trousers, angel. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale asked, voice trembling a bit as he began to undo his bowtie.

Crowley was moving toward the door. “I know you’re good and stretched, but we’re still going to need a bit of slippery.”

“Oh, I’m afraid we’re out of lubricant, my love, but didn’t you tell me that olive oil could be used in a pinch?”

“I did say that,” Crowley said, smirking once again. “It’s all we had, for millennia. No unpleasant next-day irritations with that stuff.”

He rerouted himself past the kitchen counter, grabbing the tall, thin bottle of olive oil, with a metal spout and flap on top. He set it on the table and reassumed his position behind Aziraphale, just as the waistcoat was hitting the floor. And when the shirt collar became unbuttoned, Crowley wasted no time in pulling it open and planting juicy kisses on the sensitive flesh beneath. “So… the lube’s gone, eh?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Last I saw it, there was a bit left. Did you use the last of it to stuff yourself with that glass plug, you naughty angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale mused, shrugging off his shirt. “And I’m not sorry. It felt divine, Crowley. And devilish and depraved at the same time.”

“Good, that’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Crowley told him, his words just a bit muffled, as his lips moved across bare shoulders. “Do I recall your saying that you shoved it in there and managed not to explode all over yourself.”

“I did manage that.”

Aziraphale was now unhooking his trousers, and pulling down the zip, and Crowley was still kissing his shoulders, neck, ears, arms…

“I admire your control, but it sounds like torture. If it had been me, I’d have had my hand round my cock the entire time, and I’d have had a terrible mess in the end. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I would’ve made it to dinner.”

“It was hard,” Aziraphale said, with a gulp. “Difficult, I mean. And I wanted to, but I’ve never… you know.”

“Never wanked yourself off?”

“No."

“What a shame, angel,” Crowley growled, slipping his hands inside the loosened waistband, and inside the linen pants and squeezing the ripe, soft, rounded flesh. His fingers ventured to the cleft in the centre, and he could feel the flat, round base of the glass spade outside of Aziraphale’s body, pressed against his bum. “But that’s an issue for another day. So, tell me, did you just lube up and ease it in, and then stand up and get dressed?”

“No, I… I…” Aziraphale breathed. But he could not finish his sentence because Crowley had grasped the base of the spade and was tugging at it subtly now. Not hard enough to pull it out, but just enough to cause little quakes and tiny (but powerful) surges of pleasure.

“You what?”

“I lay there for a while, and…”

Crowley was now spinning the toy inside of him. “And?” he asked. “Did you play at your hole for a bit with it? Tease yourself?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, with almost no voice, only breath.

“Did you move it in and out a few times?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley groaned, now pushing the Glen tartan trousers and linen pants down, bunching them at the knees. He groaned obscenely, rubbing his groin against the rounded cheek in front of him. “Fast or slow? Hard or gently?”

“All of those,” Aziraphale whispered. “Started out slowly, gently but couldn’t help myself.”

“Fucked yourself good?”

“Not as thoroughly as I wanted to, but yes.”

“Bad angel! Even though your intent was just to insert it?”

“Even though.”

“Because you knew you wanted to sit with it at dinner, and drive me completely mad?”

“Yes. And…”

“And?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “And because I knew that when it was all over, I’d want to be well and truly satisfied, and at that point, I would not want to stand long on ceremony.” His voice was still trembling a bit, but betraying impatience.

“Then what the fuck are we doing?” Crowley asked, grasping the base of the plug once again, and pulling.

“Oh, God,” Aziraphale groaned with absolutely no irony, whatsoever. His body instinctively bent forward, and he placed both hands flat on the table.

The spade came loose, and Crowley set it aside, on the washcloth. Meanwhile, Aziraphale reached to his left, grabbed the olive oil dispenser and handed it back.

Crowley took it, and mused, “Mm, olive oil. Been a while.”

“I don’t care. Just do it,” Aziraphale spat.

“Cheeky,” Crowley commented, pouring a generous drizzle of olive oil over his partner’s gaping hole. Aziraphale moaned, and gave a delicious curse at the odd, sinful feeling. “Oh angel, you’re so ready… I can’t fucking wait…”

“Hurry up, Crowley.”

“Then bend over. Put your elbows on the table.”

The former imperfect angel obliged.

Crowley ripped his shirt off, then tore open the button and fly of his jeans, and pushed them hurriedly down to his knees. He drizzled another hefty portion of olive oil all over the zealous, pulsating dick extending from his body, then rubbed, spreading it with one hand, while holding Aziraphale’s hole open with the other. Olive oil now soaked the area rug under their feet, and there were large, careless splatters of it all over both pairs of trousers.

“Oh, do hurry,” Aziraphale whined.

“Demanding,” Crowley growled. “One evening sitting, moving about with that spade up your arse, and suddenly you’re acting like a slut.”

“If that’s true, then so be it.”

“I watched you rocking back and forth, angel, grinding that glass cock into you over and over…”

“Crowley, stop talking and…”

“You don’t need to be bent over and fucked silly by me, angel,” Crowley said. “I know what you’ve been wanting all night.”

Crowley stepped out of his jeans, then knelt and untied the expensive two-tone brown shoes that Aziraphale always wore. He then helped free the feet from the socks, and the strong, fleshy legs from the light-coloured trousers and linen pants. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, nevertheless allowing it.

Crowley pulled a chair close, and sat down as he held onto Aziraphale’s hips. His cock jutted up from his lap, eager to impale. ”Come here, angel. Brace your hands on my knees and sit. I’ll guide you down.”

“Erm… all right.”

Aziraphale did as he was told, and Crowley guided his slippery cockhead to probe at the greedy, stretched hole. When Aziraphale felt it, he took in a quick stream of air, and from there, he eased down rather quickly. He found himself, at last, filled with Crowley’s throbbing dick. He gave a lewd groan, and a curse, followed by a Heavenly whisper of his wicked partner's name.

Already short of breath, Crowley said, “I’ll try to stay hard for you, as long as you need, angel, but I don’t have magical control over my body. If you’re too good at this, I’ll…”

“Shush,” Aziraphale said, as he spread his legs, planted his hands on the armrests, and began to bear down at slowish intervals, much as he had done with the spade. “Oh, dear… oh, dear… oh…. oh…”

Crowley reached around with one oiled-up hand and began to stroke his Aziraphale's stiff member and whisper to him. “That’s it… that’s it… mmm, yes, get it in deeper…”

“Oh, it’s already in so much deeper than the spade… oh… oh…” came the moaned response.

And Crowley became genuinely concerned that the moaning alone would make him come, even before his angel really got going on his cock.

“Angel, don’t be shy,” he panted. “I’ve got you in this position because I watched you tonight. I know what you want, so ride it hard! Give yourself a good, solid, fucking, and use me to do it! You can’t hurt me – I can take it. Just let yourself have this, angel. And me.”

“I do love how you feel in me, Crowley. I love, love, love it,” Aziraphale mused with his eyes shut, swerving his hips in circles. “Never been in this deep before… never…”

“Good. Then impale yourself over and over again, and don’t stop until right before you split open.”

“Crowley!”

Crowley increased the rate at which he pumped Aziraphale’s cock, and growled, “Oh, shut up, you loved hearing it! And isn’t that what you want?”

In lieu of an answer, Aziraphale braced his hands again on the bony knees between his own, engaged a few long-dormant muscles and Crowley began to feel himself being pumped, milked expertly.

“Yes, it’s what I want,” Aziraphale whimpered as he began to move up and down, to give himself the fucking he’d been wanting, riding Crowley’s cock as he’d been dying to, even though he hadn’t really known it. His bum began to make a luscious slapping noise against Crowley’s pelvis, and the sound only spurred him forward.

Crowley moaned openly, admired the round, accommodating arse before him and exclaimed, “Oh, angel, that’s it… that’s perfect…yes…”

He could no longer hold onto Aziraphale’s cock, but neither of them noticed, for the moment. The sensations were too much, too explosive, too indecent for them to be bothered…

Crowley leaned his head back and enjoyed the intensity, the weight of Aziraphale’s body grinding on him, the flawless, groan-inducing pressure over every inch of his straining, hair-trigger weapon, and began concentrating quite seriously on not blowing his load just yet.

“Oh, shit, you’re going to drag it out of me too early, angel! Slow down…”

But his angel didn’t hear. His senses were all concentrated on one desire. Over and over, his arse rose up just enough, then slammed back down, each time taking Crowley’s hard dick all the way inside, each time giving a pornographic groan, each time feeling himself spread open further than before.

“Fuck,” he spat, as the bulbous cockhead dug in deeper than ever, and his vision blurred. Crowley loved hearing him say that word, and let it echo in his brain. 

Aziraphale, though, did slow, and relished in the feeling of something hard and hungry sliding into his hole, seemingly effortlessly, and lodging so deep, it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He sat, and savoured the sensation for a moment – fitting together with Crowley, his love for whom had been gathering like a storm for six thousand years. 

Then he rose up, and relished it again. Then again, taking Crowley all the way in, all the way home, slamming harder and harder. Because he no longer could just let his body fall against his partner, he now made an effort and began to use force to impale himself harder and harder, and give him starry eyes, and slurred speech…

Crowley grunted with abandon at each of these strokes, and after a minute, he said, “Holy fuck, you’re good at this. How the Hell… oh, angel… how did you nggggk…”

Aziraphale felt himself becoming unraveled, and wanting to follow the desire into the next phase…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “I want to feel you absolutely erupt inside me, like a fucking cannon!”

“Sure you’re ready?” Crowley asked, now looking forward, grasping Aziraphale’s hips, as though he could have any control.

“Yes, damn it, just tell me what I have to do to feel wet hot come filling me up! Tell me!”

“Just keep saying things like that,” Crowley told him. “And don’t stop pumping… don’t stop… oh, shit, don’t stop…”

Aziraphale continued to slam his arse down over Crowley’s rod, as fast as he could manage, impaling himself, now causing himself a kind of delicious pain. He could feel his insides beginning to chafe, in spite of the olive oil, but he didn’t care. He just kept going, serving himself, and his lover, and love itself.

“Oh Crowley, do hurry! Give it to me…” he panted, spurring his partner on. “Give me gushes of it! Take your pleasure… come on… think how good it will feel to let go inside of me!”

As an afterthought, Aziraphale reached down and squeezed Crowley’s balls as hard as he dared, and twisted. He then heard a loud grunt of, “Oh fuck!” tear across the space, followed by the powerful throbbing of the cock in his arse, and the warm, slippery flow of creamy come, being released with hard groans and thrusts, deep inside of him. 

“Come here,” Crowley said, to his surprise, and he felt his partner’s hand in his hair tugging him backward.

Aziraphale now leaned back against Crowley’s right shoulder, whilst Crowley’s left hand wrapped itself around his suffering, prodigiously swollen, copiously leaking member. That hand began to jerk up and down, while Aziraphale’s body tightened over the next thirty seconds, and incomprehensible phrases tumbled off his lips. Soon enough, the tightening turned to total exhale, and his own milky pleasure was spurting out, accompanied by the music of his groans, and the lyrics of Crowley’s low, growled encouragement. His stomach was speckled with warm, fresh come, as was Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley stayed with it until the last drop oozed over his thumb, then immediately sucked and licked off what he could from his fingers with a greedy moan. He then declared, “Now THAT was what you needed, wasn’t it angel?”

“It was,” Aziraphale mused, a bit dazed, still leaning on Crowley’s shoulder. “How did you know?”

“Not my first rodeo.”

“I suppose I should be thankful for that,” Aziraphale panted.

“Well, without my experience, we’d both be stumbling in the dark.”

“I found that very… well, pleasurable of course.”

“I’d never have known,” Crowley said, allowing one finger to drag through the slick pools on his partner’s slightly rounded belly, the very palpable indicator of the ‘pleasurable’ nature of their evening. He brought just a bit of the salty liquid to his mouth, and sucked it off his finger.

“But I’m looking for another adjective,” Aziraphale said, sitting up.

“Explosive? Revelatory?” Crowley joked.

“Liberating,” Aziraphale said.

“Liberating. Interesting, angel.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re giving me… tools. You’re constantly teaching me. Constantly showing me how to feel what I like. How to know what I want, and have it.”

“Don’t think there aren’t selfish motivations in that.”

“Oh, I know that there are, but…”

“I’ve done all sorts of things these past six thousand years, Aziraphale. I don’t want nor need a total submissive, or a sex slave. I want a partner. Preferably one as depraved and versatile as I am.”

“You also don’t want me being a milquetoast, do you?”

“No, because you’re not. You’re tough, and you’re a pleasure-seeker, and you always have been. Those two things translate to… well, not a passive participant. You deserve to have and feel everything.”

“Thank you for teaching me what that means.”

“Well, you’re an incredibly amenable pupil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thoughts?
> 
> Drop a comment, especially if you "asked" for this chapter... only fair to give feedback! Thanks for reading!


	8. A Golden Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns about another of Crowley's (very entertaining!) creature comforts, and learns to decompress just a bit. 
> 
> No smut, just humor and domesticity!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might seem ABSURD, but there are a few things I'd like to point out.
> 
> 1) In the book, there is suggestion that Crowley is responsible for a lot of what is on TV. Of course, the book came out circa 1990 when TV was very different (and demonic?).  
> 2a) In the book, there is definitely a scene in which Crowley is watching the show that figures in this chapter! In fact, he loses the plot because some minion of Hell decides to use one of the characters as a conduit to communicate Apocalyptic nonsense.  
> 2b) So you see, Crowley is a (former) demon, but there is sure-fire evidence that he likes this show, and it's not just me being goofy!  
> 3) I love that show as well, and I do maintain that the writing was almost always on-point, and could, at times, be exceptional!
> 
> Enjoy!

Twenty-four hours later, Aziraphale stood over Crowley whilst the latter sat on the sofa, and listened to a voice mail.

“Crowley? Anathema. I’m just returning your call about keeping clothes clean. Well, ordinary clothes can be washed in a machine, and dried in another machine… I would guess that your flat would have come with those sorts of things. If not, you can purchase them, or maybe there’s a laundry room in your building? But I've noticed that like me, you guys wear a lot of quirky, specialised clothing, with delicate fabrics and whatnot. I guess you never had to think too hard about maintaining them. But sorry to say, those sorts of things are harder to deal with. Like for example, you can’t put leather pants – trousers – in a washing machine. Or vinyl ones. Aziraphale’s Victorian suits and velveteen items cannot be washed that way either. For those things, there are dry cleaners. They clean fine pieces of clothing without using water, and without damaging the garments. Although, you mentioned, erm, copious olive oil stains? Well, those might be tough. If you let the dry cleaner know what it is, he can probably take care of it, but you’d have to communicate that.

“You also mentioned specifically a cashmere sweater that has some sort of… erm, stain, you said, that is decidedly not olive oil. I don’t want to know what that means, but the dry cleaner might be able to get it out, if you give him more information than just, ‘it’s not olive oil.’

“And in the future, be careful with your olive oil, and your NOT olive oil. Humans avoid certain messes for a reason, okay? Literally and figuratively. Can’t just snap your fingers and be done with it.”

At that point, the message timed out again, so Crowley listened to the subsequent one.

“Hi. It’s me, talking too much yet again. Just a couple of final thoughts:

“If you’re going to use the washing machine, you’ll have to buy some detergent at the supermarket, and some fabric softener as well! Oh, and, we’re going to be in London next week for a couple of days, between Thursday and Sunday morning. If you want, we can meet in the park, and work out together. Call or text me, and let me know when you’d be free. Okay… take care of yourselves. Bye.”

\--------------------------------------

They had spent the first half of that day studying prophecy (which was what had reminded Crowley to call Anathema), then, true to form, had closed up shop and gone to lunch. While waiting for their wine, they made a quick plan to spend the second half of the day shopping.

“For what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, have you looked in our kitchen lately? We’ve hardly got anything in – including, now, olive oil. Which reminds me, we should probably stop by Stallions.”

“Keep your voice down, Crowley,” Aziraphale had demanded, knowing that Stallions was an ‘adult’ shop, where one could purchase various implements of pleasure, for couples such as themselves. Though he would have preferred not to discuss it in public at all, he couldn’t help but ask, “What do we need from there?”

“A couple bottles of lube,” Crowley had said, casually.

“A couple? Why a couple?”

“One for the shower. I don’t know about you, angel, but I’ve learned my lesson about bar soap and repetitive chafing.”

“Oh, Crowely,” Aziraphale had scolded, like a Victorian auntie.

“Again with the proper?” Crowley had chuckled. Then he had affected Aziraphale’s manner of speech. “’I’m afraid we’re out of lubricant, my love, but didn’t you tell me that olive oil could be used in a pinch?’”

“Shush!”

Crowley had continued quoting his partner, from the night before, during their kitchen adventure. “’Crowley, I want to feel you absolutely erupt…’”

“Shush now! I’m serious!” Aziraphale spat. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to stand up and walk out right now! It might not be so bad, Crowley, if we weren’t in public!”

They had chosen once again to partake of Mozzafiato’s food, and try something new today. Crowley wound up ordering their basil-fennel sausage sandwich, and Aziraphale had sampled their goat cheese pizza with fresh oregano and house-made smoked pepperoni.

After that, they went to the market for the week’s provisions, then split up. Crowley went to Stallions whilst Aziraphale went to a ‘modern’ bookshop and purchased a volume all about taking care of plants. When they’d become human, Crowley had lost his ability to ‘communicate’ with his greenery, and therefore his ability to keep them alive. Aziraphale was dismayed by the sight of dying plants in the corridor, and did not want to throw them out, but had no idea how to nurse them back to life.

And now, it was evening, an unremarkable chicken dinner had been unremarkably consumed, and they were in separate rooms of the flat, unwinding.

Aziraphale had stood up from where he sat, and wandered out into the hall to study the plants. He reckoned they’d have to be moved to a part of the flat that got more direct sunlight, and he would have to do more than just mist them. And to bring them back from the dead, they would need special plant food and to have cut off the wilting brown fronds, sucking energy from the healthy parts of the plants.

He had heard Crowley’s mobile phone ring from somewhere nearby. It was lying on the desk in the study. 

The annoying tinny song had filled the room, and the name “Anathema” had come up on the display. Aziraphale waited for it to stop, then had brought the phone to Crowley, who had been sitting, for the last hour, upon the sofa in the parlour.

\------------------------------------------

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, after Crowley listened to the message.

“She said to use a washing machine, and a separate machine for drying,” Crowley told him, tossing the phone aside. “Said maybe the flat came with them.”

“Oh. Is that what’s in that room down the hall, that we never go in?”

“Possibly. I never bothered to wonder what those things were for. She also said that things like suits and leather and vinyl and cashmere have to go to a dry cleaner – can’t go in the machines.”

“Dry cleaners. I’ve seen those about.”

“But we have to tell them how things got soiled,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. “I guess so that they know how to release the stains…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, distastefully, sitting down on the sofa beside his companion. “I don’t fancy the idea of that at all.”

“Well, I don’t imagine we’ll have to give details. We’ll just have to tell them what the stain is. Red wine, or chocolate ganache, or…”

“Do you suppose he or she will know, you know… how it happened?”

Crowley smirked. “I don't know how else that much olive oil winds up splattered over two men's trousers in quite such a way, but I suppose a thing like that wouldn't necessarily be on everyone's radar. Maybe they'll just think it was a cooking mishap. Although, when they see the dried-up white splotch on the black cashmere…”

“Okay, okay,” Aziraphale said. He sighed. “I suppose living this life, indulging the way we do… it’s inevitable.”

“People have sex, Aziraphale, and it’s all right. Most everyone understands that. Even the Archangel Michael, for Somebody’s sake. And anyway, it’s no-one’s business. Our clothes got caught in the crossfire this time… maybe in future, we try to be more diligent about getting out of them before things kick off, eh?”

“An excellent plan.”

“Did you work out what to do about the plants?”

“Yes, I did,” Aziraphale said. Then he frowned, when he realised what Crowley had been doing here on the sofa, for the past hour. “Are you… watching television?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Aziraphale continued to frown. “Well, Crowley, I wouldn’t have said anything back when we were both immortal, but now, I must ask you: don’t you think life is too short?”

Crowely smiled. “No. I’m enjoying myself. It’s a laugh. It’s like reading a book, only less effort.”

The former angel looked distastefully at the paused scene on the screen. It was a garish, outdated kitchen occupied by three human women in dowdy clothing, all of whom seemed to be upwards of sixty years old. “Oh, Crowley. I mean… what is this?”

“Oi! Less judgement, more embracing of creature comforts,” Crowley protested, smacking his haughty companion on the arm. “Television is a product of the twentieth century, which I realise hasn’t quite caught your notice yet, but why is yoga okay, and this isn’t?”

“Well, yoga is a form of exercise and meditation, both of which have been shown to improve the quality, and to prolong, human life.”

“Television provides escapism and laughter, both of which have been shown to improve the quality, and to prolong, human life. It’s called recreation, angel. Dive in.”

Aziraphale studied Crowley’s body’s position. He was leaned back on the sofa with both arms spread out over the back cushions, and both feet up on the coffee table. Awkwardly, Aziraphale began to imitate the pose, except in the end, he returned his hands to his lap like always.

“Okay, if you’re going to watch TV with me, get rid of the bowtie,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale obliged, tossing the slip of fabric aside, and unbuttoning his collar. For good measure, he also rid himself of his jacket and waistcoat, and returned to his new TV-watching position.

“I’m ready,” he said, as though he were about to do barrel rolls in a crop duster.

“This programme is called ‘The Golden Girls.’ It’s an American, half-hour sit-com."

"A what?"

"A situation comedy."

"All right. With you so far."

"At this point, the newest episodes are thirty years old, and almost all of the actors are dead. But it was one of my favourite things about the 1980s, and if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll hide your Ottwell Binns first editions somewhere you'll never find them."

“Understood.”

“The premise is, four older women who are either divorced or widowed, move to Florida and become housemates. Hijinx ensue.”

“Is it based upon any accepted canonical works, say, by Aeschylus or Shakespeare?” Aziraphale asked, failing to see how such a premise could fill an entire half-hour, let alone on a weekly basis.

“No, it’s its own thing,” Crowley shrugged. “Each of the four main characters has her own exaggeratedly quirky personality… I suppose you could call them archetypal if you wanted to intellectualise the crap out of it.”

“I see. Well, what are the archetypes?”

“I don’t know what, say, an angelic egghead would call them, but… well, the one on the far left is a moron. The one on the far right is… well, let’s say she would definitely know how the big olive oil splashes got there."

“Oh, my!”

“The one there in the brown, she’s overly sarcastic and cynical. The fourth character is her eightysomething-year-old mother, who possesses no discernible thought-to-speech filter.”

“So, what, they just sit there in the kitchen firing one-liners, or what-have-you?”

Crowley sighed. “Wow, you really don’t know how scripted television works, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, you weird, weird man,” Crowley chuckled. “A sit-com is like a series of short 3-act plays. Details of a storyline begin to emerge straight away, and before long, a conflict arises. And the exaggerated personalities interact with the conflict, and with the resolution, coming to a dénouement as only they can.”

“All right then,” Aziraphale sighed back gesturing awkwardly at the screen. “Tell me what’s going on in this week’s installment.”

“Episode, Aziraphale. They’re called episodes.”

“Fine – episode. What’s the conflict-resolution paradigm in this episode?”

“I don’t know – this is just the credits.”

“All right, let’s find out what happens.”

“Okay,” Crowley said. “You understand, this is supposed to be entertaining. Not thought-provoking, not historically important…”

“I understand.”

“Okay. Open mind, angel.”

Crowley unpaused the show, and the rest of the theme tune, “Thank You For Being a Friend,” played out.

Immediately, the jokes kicked off. Sophia, the eldest, was accused of being cranky. “Well forgive me. My arthritis is bothering me, my social security check was late, and I realised today, I haven’t showered with a man in twenty-two years,” she replied.

“Oh my!” Aziraphale gasped. “Can they say things like that on television?”

Crowley just chuckled.

Sophia’s daughter pointed out that her father has been dead for twenty seven years, which led their daft friend Rose to conclude that Sophia showered with a dead man for five years.

And then, to everyone’s shock, Aziraphale laughed. 

Immediately, he stifled it. Crowley didn’t say anything, but he definitely noticed.

Rose then proceeded to ask whether “rooster inseminating” is taught in American high schools, put her foot in her mouth concerning the seemingly advanced age of her friend’s date, and claim that her general cluelessness is a result of her family intermarrying a bit too often.

This time, Aziraphale laughed, and didn’t stifle it. “Wow. A moron, indeed.”

“Yes, but at least she’s showing a bit of self-awareness, which is rare,” Crowley commented.

“It occurs to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could tell that this might be a long discourse of some sort, so he paused the television. “That they could have told the story, as it were – the miniature story, if you will – of the old lady showering with men, in a different way.”

Crowley sighed. “What?”

“I mean, when the old lady said she hadn’t showered with a man in twenty-two years, they could simply have had Rose say, ‘your husband has been dead for twenty-seven, so I conclude that you showered with his corpse for five.’ Yet, they didn’t. The idea of showering with a corpse is absurd, indeed, and is shocking and amusing on its own. Yet, they included questions, quips, a roundabout way of getting to the point, and some amusing phrasing, and overall the effect is even more amusing.”

“Yes, angel, it’s called setting up a joke,” Crowley said. “Good writing will allow them to do that often, and weave it all into the story. Sometimes it takes the whole half-hour to set up a joke.”

“It seems to me that this is a subtle art. Or could be considered such, under the right circumstances.”

“Gee, do you think?”

“I would have to consult my books, but I believe it’s a modernisation of techniques we’ve seen throughout history.”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“What an interesting study.”

“And look at that, we’re not even two minutes in.”

“Do proceed.”

From there, a man entered the scene to take out one of the women, Blanche. He had an interesting exchange with Sophia, to whom he eventually said, “Blanche said you were incorrigible!”

“I guess I deserve it,” Sophia responded. “I always say she’s a cheap slut.”

At this, both Aziraphale and Crowley laughed. The former tried to stifle it, but was unsuccessful.

“I suppose it’s the bluntness of it that made me laugh,” he justified. “The unexpectedness of it.”

“Right, right,” Crowley chuckled.

“The element of surprise, even a small surprise, can be quite powerful in theatre.”

Then Blanche and her date left, which was followed by an exchange in which Rose didn’t understand common English-language expressions, Dorothy is cynical and annoyed, and Sophia belittles them both. All of this was executed with a series of linguistic misdirections, to very comical effect.

“Very tight writing,” Aziraphale commented. “Could be a proper farce.”

Halfway through the episode, it was revealed the Sophia is secretly dating Blanche’s beau, who was introduced earlier. He then puts it on the two women to decide whether he will be dating one or both of them.

“Oh! We have our conflict!” Aziraphale breathed.

From there, as Crowley had said, Blanche and Sophia immediately began “interacting with the conflict” as their exaggerated personality traits would dictate.

“Blanche Devereaux has never shared a man!” Blanche declared.

“Or a pizza,” Sophia shot back.

“Oh! Did she just call her friend fat?” Aziraphale asked.

“She did,” Crowley confirmed.

“Ha! Very true to Sophia’s no-thought-to-speech-filter archetype! And also indicative of how she handles adversity.”

Crowley wished a bit that his companion could just loosen up and laugh at the jokes, rather than analyzing the writing, the story structure, character motivations, et cetera. But he realised that this was, indeed, how Aziraphale enjoyed himself. He was laughing when he should, and having fun with one of Crowley’s creature comforts, so he reckoned he ought not be choosy.

A few minutes later, Blanche fired at Sophia and her date by appearing in a négligée, and claming to be headed for a “Hot, steamy bath, with just enough water to barely cover my perky bosoms.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, disapprovingly, but still chortling. “And there’s Blanche’s randy personality, dealing with the conflict!”

“You’re only going to sit in an inch of water?” Sophia asked, in proper, no-filter, Sophia fashion.

The conflict resolved itself when the man died, and it was revealed that he was seeing twenty-five different women, which was likely what killed him.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, delightedly. “So Sophia and Blanche needn’t have fought at all!”

Crowley smiled and looked at his companion fondly. “You are chuffing adorable, do you know that?”

“It’s nothing to do with adorable,” Aziraphale protested, sitting up straight, and adjusting his cuffs. “It’s to do with recognising a well-executed piece of theater, even in the unlikeliest of packaging.”

“So you’re not adorable?”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps I am. But the point stands. Thank you for introducing me to this, Crowley. I had no idea.”

“You’re welcome,” Crowley said. “Now, that’s not to say that they’re not plenty of tripe out there. There are sit-coms that are complete rubbish. But there are plenty with good writing, proper farce… all that stuff you said. Not to mention, angel… ‘The Golden Girls’ is from the 1980s, but these days, we’re living in rather a privileged time for television.”

“How so?”

“There’s more actual ‘good’ stuff out there than ever before,” Crowley said. “They call it ‘bingeworthy.’ There’s drama, comedy, dramedy, adventure, historic. Excellent writing, compelling characters, bloody awful cliffhangers, frustrating story-arcs…”

Crowley called up Netflix on the television and began to scroll through. 

“Each one of these is what you would call ‘good stuff?’ Bingeworthy?” Aziraphale asked. “You’d say it’s well-executed theatre?”

“Not all of them, but plenty of them. We should pick one and start watching an episode a night or something. Or every other night. It’s something we could do together, besides shagging. Not that I don’t love that.”

“I see, though. It’s an interest we could share, on a regular basis. Yoga once a week, food, sex, good televised theatre on occasion.”

“Right. It’s an escape. Or, for you, perhaps more of an intellectual pursuit that I could actually participate in. Plus, it’s an excuse to order food, then sit on the sofa and hold hands. Maybe start snogging if the plot gets slow.”

“All right, why don’t you choose one?” Aziraphale said. “Mind you, I’m not keen on the idea of becoming an avid television-watcher just for the sake of it.”

“Of course not,” said Crowley, exaggeratedly.

“But based on what I’ve seen, I’m willing to believe that it’s not the universal wasteland I once believed.”

“Thanks ever so.”

Aziraphale stood up. “I’m going to go change into pyjamas.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they’re comfortable. I’ll admit that lounging on a sofa is not normal for me, and I’m finding that my current apparel is not conducive to it. I’ll be right back.” He gathered up his jacket, waistcoat and bowtie.

“You own pyjamas? Wait, of course you do, I’ve seen them. So, why do you own pyjamas? Didn’t you only recently start sleeping?”

“Yes, but on a trip to India a hundred years ago or so, as part of a series of blessings, I was obliged to buy a set off a chap who was starting a business.”

“And you liked them?”

“Yes, of course. They’re exquisite. That original pair got lost in a flood in Bombay that year, but since then, I’ve owned a few other sets. Mostly satin or polished cotton.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Historically, as you know, I haven’t slept much, so I’ve worn them sometimes in unguarded moments of relaxation. Puttering about the book shop, having cocoa,” he replied. Then he looked away, and blushed a bit. “But now that I’m human, I tend not to wear much of anything when I sleep. Though, that’s nothing to do with being human in and of itself.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“How can a creature who enjoys sleeping as much as you do, not own a pair of pyjamas? Have you always just sprawled out naked, like a snake sunning itself on a rock?”

Crowley frowned. “Yeah. Imagine me, being snake-like. Where the Hell would I have got that?"

“All right, if we’re going to ‘binge’ something, Crowley, then we’re going to do so in pyjamas. I believe we’ve been finding that our favourite creature comforts work best in tandem, wouldn’t you agree? Yoga and shower, food and voyeurism…”

Crowley smirked. “Okay. Television and pyjamas.”

“I’ll buy you a set tomorrow. What colour would you like?” Aziraphale asked. “Heh, just kidding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a few seconds out of your day to drop me a comment! It would make my day! Thanks for reading. :-)


	9. For Satin's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Television, and getting comfy in one's lounge-wear. Aziraphale has already revealed that he has always enjoyed wearing pyjamas, especially of the satin variety, even though as an angel, he never really slept much.
> 
> Crowley is about to find that he enjoys them, too... and not for sleeping!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little bit of smut for ya here. Hope you enjoy it!

Aziraphale was learning that part of being human was eating a lot of unremarkable meals. As an angel, he only ever put fine, lovingly-prepared foods in his body. But back then, he could go days and days without eating, or stop eating altogether, if he so chose. 

But when a busy human doesn’t have the time to eat because he is studying prophecy, inventorying ancient volumes from the Middle East, or rearranging furniture in order to cater to houseplants, he gets suddenly, annoyingly hungry, and occasionally must eat a quick, salty Cup-o-Soup, with limp noodles and small, disturbing chunks of “chicken” in it.

He had skipped meals as a human, but he didn’t like it – skipping breakfast had made him feel faint. So, he had learned to make waffles, fry bacon and eggs, and make toast.

And then, watching a second episode of the “Golden Girls” the previous night in which the “girls” attempt to lose weight, he was reminded that he could not afford to have a decadent breakfast each day, loaded with carbohydrates, sugar and grease. He was already just on the edge of pudgy (though Crowley argued heartily with him every time he said so), not to mention there was a thing called cholesterol… though he wasn’t exactly sure how it worked.

He was rinsing a too-acidic salad dressing and a mushroom sauce off the dinner plates, and sighing. This had been a passable meal, save for the dressing. Crowley, who had taken it upon himself to learn to cook for the sake of his angelic companion, was far more adept in the kitchen than himself, had thrown together a sort of stroganoff meal with a lean cut of beef and a bit of egg noodle. Aziraphale had, on occasion, attempted baking with some success, but never had any actual interest in creating culinary delights, only in devouring them. He supposed he’d have to learn to cook more things, and could probably learn to really enjoy it.

He supposed he’d have to learn how to cook healthy things. What would that even look like?

“Do we have a rendezvous set up with Anathema, to learn about… what was the word? Calisthenics?” he asked, as Crowley mopped up the last of the debris from the kitchen table.

“Yeah, next Friday. There’s a little park not too far from here.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, angel. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, shyly, opening the dishwasher. “I want to. It’s only wise for a man my age...”

“There are no men your age,” said Crowley. “Except me.”

“You know what I mean. Fortysomething is where Michael dropped us. So, metabolism and cholesterol…”

“Oh yeah, cholesterol,” Crowley mused. “Forgot about that.”

“Well, as I understand it, things aren’t dire now, but in the next decade or so, I’ll be glad to have nipped it in the bud. And Crowley, perhaps we should go a bit easier on the alcohol.”

Crowley made a bitter face, and sighed. “Ugh, being human is hard.”

“Indeed,” agreed Aziraphale. “Listen, I have a gift for you.”

“Another gift? Be still my heart.”

“If you’ll finish loading dishes in this… apparatus, then I’ll go fetch it, and meet you in the parlour.”

“Ah yes, episode two tonight,” Crowley responded, taking a dish out of Aziraphale’s hand. The latter smiled, a tugged at the lapels of Crowley’s designer jacket, feigning straightening it, then kissed him on the cheek, and left the kitchen.

\-----------------------------------------------

The previous evening, after their surprising foray into “The Golden Girls,” the pair had begun watching a limited Netflix series about a group of four university students who had been forced to work together on a project. Each one had a unique superpower, though none of the other three knew about it – each thought they were toiling with their own semi-shameful secret. At the end of episode one, the four of them were sitting in the university library, discussing plans for their project. The student with the ability to create air currents had accidentally got a bit too emotional and a gust of wind had torn up the book they were working with. The last frame was of the other three students staring at him with surprise and terror.

“Oh! Are the other three going to find out about Brayden’s power, and will they then open up to one another?” Aziraphale had asked.

Crowley had chuckled. “Well, it’s cliffhanger, and it’s meant to make us ask that very question. Although, my guess would be, no, that won’t happen this early in the game.”

“Well, what do you suppose is causing them to have these powers?” asked Aziraphale, excitedly, almost with the voracity with which he would inquire about the ingredients in a pie filling.

“I reckon that issue will become part of the intrigue and mystery of the series, angel,” Crowley had answered. “Didn’t you read periodical serials back in the day? It’s the same sort of thing.”

“Yes, I suppose I did,” Aziraphale answered, happily. “And I suppose now you mention it, ‘cliffhanger’ is a word that hearkens back to those times.”

After that, they had discussed watching a second episode, but had decided to wait until the following night... which had now become tonight.

And so, tonight, Crowley finished loading the dishwasher, then ran it, and he and Aziraphale arrived in the parlour at just about the same time. The latter was wearing a set of pale grey satin pyjamas, clutching a shopping bag from Harrod’s. He held it out to Crowley.

“This is for me?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, my love,” Aziraphale responded, with a delightedly. “A minor creature comfort, for settling in with some good on-screen serial theatre.”

Crowley chuckled, at his companion's insistence upon calling it "on-screen serial theatre," refusing to admit that there was such a thing as "good television," and took the bag into the bedroom to change. Meanwhile, Aziraphale went back to the kitchen to pour two glasses of wine. 

Again, they arrived in the parlour at just about simultaneously, and this time, Crowley was dressed in black satin pyjamas. 

“So, what do you think?” asked Aziraphale.

“I like it,” Crowley answered, coolly.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about the button-up top, or about us matching exactly, so I decided to find a variation for you. I mean, not that anyone would see us…”

“I noticed that. Thanks.”

Aziraphale set the two glasses on the coffee table, then did something he rarely did. In fact, what he did was usually part of Crowley’s possession/seduction routine, and had been for ages and ages: he walked around his partner, and looked him over. Though, Aziraphale’s objective in doing so was less about possession or seduction, and much more about admiring the clothing, and how it fit. At least, that’s how it started.

Crowley’s variation was a v-neck tee-shirt-like top, made of stretchy, soft rayon. It fit like a glove, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but run his fingers across Crowley’s stomach, arms and back, feeling the fine fabric against the lean, sinewy body he loved so much. “Oh, that’s lovely,” he cooed.

“I agree,” Crowley replied, softly, standing uncharacteristically still, allowing himself just to be touched.

The bottoms were loose-fitting satin, and when Aziraphale took a second spin around, his hands now explored the tight bum that fit in his hand like an apple, and a bit of the thigh below. It all felt so different, slippery and delicious under the cover of the silken material. He ran his hands down the sides of Crowley's legs, then round to the front, and stopped.

“No pants, I notice,” Aziraphale sang, as he came back round to face his partner. He also noticed then that there was a slight bulge in the front of the black satin trousers that hadn’t been there before, probably induced by his hands exploring as they had… but he decided to ignore it for now, and try to put his own respondent desire into check. This wasn’t supposed to be about lust. It was supposed to be about comfort.

“No way, angel,” Crowley said, fingering the fabric at his hip. “I’m not letting anything get between me and this.”

“Very wise.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve still got those linen things on underneath?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m like you: satin and skin.”

They locked eyes, and a goofy moment of mesmerized, adolescent infatuation passed between them, during which they both wondered if they should scrap episode two, and take full advantage of the satin-on-skin moment…

But ultimately, it was Crowley who stopped the lust-train, by taking his lover’s hand, and pulling him toward the sofa. He knew that Aziraphale had been looking forward to this combining of creature comforts, and was determined to deliver.

Aziraphale sat down on Crowley’s left, which hardly ever happened. He took one glass of wine in his hand, and leaned back. He placed his bare feet on the coffee table as Crowley arranged the television for episode two of ‘The Quad.’ 

The episode began with Brayden the wind-conjurer arriving home, and angrily slamming his belongings down onto the kitchen table, and cursing. A middle-aged man appeared, calling him “son,” and making small-talk that revealed that he knows all about Brayden’s power. The young man ranted about not being able to control himself, and asking his father what happens if he loses it when it really matters, or if his friends don’t so readily accept his stupid, improvised lie next time.

The following scene was about the two female members of the group of four, having coffee and talking in a stilted manner about what Brayden had done, each clearly trying to suss out whether the other thought that the event was a terrifying abomination, or a cool, unique take on nature.

Crowley remained entertained by Aziraphale’s wicked-obvious commentary, such as, “Oh, now we’re finding out that Brayden isn’t alone after all!”

“Yeah, it’s kind of sweet. Batman has an Alfred,” Crowley muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

“You know, it seems to me that each of the girls is wondering whether she would be accepted by her friends if they knew about her power, and that’s why each of them seems to be probing the other for an opinion or reaction of some sort.”

“D’you think?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, emphatically.

And Crowley wondered how long before the commentary got old. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, because for now, Aziraphale was very happy and learning how to unwind a bit.

About midway through the episode, Crowley leaned forward and took his wine glass, and when he leaned back again, he placed his left hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, and stroked rather absently with his thumb. Then, with all of the fingers.

After a couple of minutes, he said, “Ooh, now this does feel nice. No wonder you had your hands all over me.”

Aziraphale just sighed, “Mm-hm.”

Crowley’s hand wandered further to the left, and around the thigh, stroking and squeezing, no longer absently.

“Flesh through satin,” he mused. “Who knew?”

Aziraphale could clearly see Crowley trying hard not to overtly sexualise these moments – the closeness, the pyjamas, the evening that had been designed with a bit of everyday intimacy in mind. He could feel his companion holding back, and reckoned it was for his sake.

He appreciated this. But he also couldn’t blame Crowley for being stirred by it. Perhaps it wasn’t a particularly sexy situation (or perhaps it was), but their relationship was still new… all of this was new to them, and their desires were hair-trigger at the moment.

Slightly distracted, they managed to get through the episode, and Crowley asked, “Would you like to continue? We could do another one.”

“I would like that,” Aziraphale said. “But first, more wine?”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale took both glasses back to the kitchen, and returned with both refilled. He set them on the table, but before he could sit, Crowley perched on the edge of the sofa, and wrapped his hands around the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs, and pulled him in closer.

“Sorry, angel, I can’t take anymore of not touching you."

“That’s quite all right,” Aziraphale whispered, as Crowley laid his head against him, and locked his arms round his bum. He plunged his fingers into the soft red hair, and pulled, and was rewarded with a low, sensual groan from the depths of Crowley’s throat.

"That makes me hard," he mused.

"I know."

Crowley then let his hands rove over the round bottom underneath the satin trousers, and the thighs and calves, the back up again. “I can’t believe how good this feels.” He pulled back and then did the same down the sides of the thighs, now locking eyes with his angel. He smirked a bit as one hand wandered into the area between the thighs where a bulge had been forming. He stroked the burgeoning erection through the satin, and Aziraphale groaned, allowing his head to loll back, and his eyes to close.

Crowley’s manipulation resulted in almost an immediate, completely hard cock jutting forward from Aziraphale’s body. The latter moaned, and let a hiss of “Yes,” escape his pink lips as Crowley’s fingers savoured the sensation of cool satin enveloping an engorged phallus.

Though, he could not help but take advantage of the position in which he was sitting. He was at eye-level with Aziraphale’s navel, and practically drooled with hunger.

He undid the bottom two buttons of the light grey pyjama top, then tugged on the bottoms until Aziraphale’s purple-headed cock bobbed in his face. He wasted absolutely no time burying it in his throat, and pressing his nose against his lover’s body, with a delicious, voracious moan. Crowley thanked Whoever that his old reptilian lack-of-gag-reflex was still in force, now that he was human.

But this particular idyll didn’t last long, because though Crowley thoroughly enjoyed pulling back and forth, unsheathing then re-burying Aziraphale’s cock, moaning, sucking, tonguing the precome-leaking hole, pumping pleasure out of his partner with his mouth, he began palming his own hardness through the satin trousers. Again, he marvelled at how sensuality became heightened with just a bit of cool, smooth, fine, fabric, much in the same way as a lubricant. He had always enjoyed the sensation of having his dick in someone’s hand (even his own), although with some saliva, or olive oil, or soap (back in the old days, anyway) or some lovely modern KY, everything changed. It was a different experience…

And tonight, with Aziraphale’s little creature comfort, he’d found a new facet.

Then, he was reminded of something Aziraphale had said a couple of nights prior. The fact was, the imperfect angel had never learned how to get himself off. Crowley was sure that he’d be a quick study as he had been at every other aspect of pleasure, but for whatever reason, he had not yet been able to bring himself to take his orgasms in-hand, so to speak. He had even lubed up and toyed at his back door with a glass sex toy – and then inserted it and left it there! - but had decided to try and will away the urgency, which must have been excruciating.

Crowley released Aziraphale’s cock with a wet pop, and pulled the waistband back up, not exactly concealing, but no longer exposing the protruding member.

“What’s wrong?’ Aziraphale asked, breathlessly.

“Sit down,” Crowley told him, not stopping his manual attentions on himself. “Beside me.”

Aziraphale, as usual, did as asked. “Why?”

“It occurs to me that this is another teachable moment, angel. Lean back a bit, let your cock stand up inside your satin bottoms. Like this.” Crowley then demonstrated his favourite position for having a good wank.

Aziraphale tried it, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. “Like so?”

“Yeah, sort of, but… well, angel, let me see you stroke your cock.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Crowley insisted. “Just touch it with your fingertips. Pinch gently through the satin, and tell me you don’t want to touch it more.”

Aziraphale took the covered head of his dick between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, and moved in circles slowly. Immediately his posture began to look more relaxed. “Oh, that is nice.”

“Mm,” Crowley replied, doing the same. “Now let your fingers wander. Do what feels good.”

“How far do I go?”

“All the way to the end,” Crowley answered, flitting a naughty eyebrow at him. 

Aziraphale’s eyes met his partner’s while he stroked. “All on my own?”

“You’re not on your own – I’m here. And I’m watching. But in future, you have another tool, so to speak, for when you are on your own, and your thoughts consume you. Or when you’re with me, but I’m not getting to you fast enough. Or if you need to relax. Or you’re in the shower and you start feeling a bit… you know. Just thought you might like to learn this bit of the sexual repertoire. It might seem basic, but, well, you missed instruction on wanking 101, back when your body was new, and jumped straight to the… ”

“Advanced level?”

“Yeah. Well, six thousand years later, but yes.”

“Well, seeing as how I missed the self-teaching stage, I’m very glad you’ll be here to watch.” He adjusted his position, sinking into the cushions a bit more. “You can make sure I don’t go wrong.”

“You can’t go wrong,” Crowley breathed, then moved over to the other side of the L-shaped sofa, so that he could see his companion more easily, without having to turn his head.

Aziraphale’s fingers moved smoothly over his satin-covered member, and he moaned. “You were right – it’s hard to stop.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley mirrored his actions.

They both continued to pleasure themselves for a while, and eventually Aziraphale got to a point where he seemed to be all alone in his own mind. He tried different things with his fingers – flitting all five over the head, one after another. He pinched, then he pinched harder. He held the base, then toyed with the head with the other hand. He whispered to himself, “Oh yes – that’s lovely,” and he moaned without compunction. His language became expressive, and Crowley delighted in hearing this – the “Oh my... oh fuck!” that would fall out of his exquisite angel’s mouth, and the occasional, “So good…”

Once in a while, he did something that prompted Crowley to give a strained, sensuous chuckle, or moan, “Oh, angel,” while he gave himself the same treatment – a bit of satiny self-pleasure, an unexpected indulgence.

Crowley relished in watching his angel uninhibited in this way – this lascivious self-administering of pleasure that he had never experienced before. There was nothing like a good wank – knowing precisely how to move, for the maximum effect, the guaranteed drive toward explosion, the exacting movements that not even a familiar lover could deliver every time. To know that Aziraphale was feeling that, the perfection of uninterrupted masturbation… he was ready to come surprisingly soon.

But he edged. He held himself on the brink, for a minute, then pulled back. He took a deep breath, and relaxed, then started again. He had learned all manner of self-control techniques as a demon, and enjoyed the back and forth of this, the rise and fall, the anticipation of his lover’s release…

And he fully intended to watch Aziraphale make a total mess of himself before he let himself go.

But then, quite suddenly, Aziraphale ripped the fabric away from his distended flesh, and began simply pulling hard on his exposed erection, looking for release. He grunted, and bit his lip, and for the first time, watched his own hand as he wanked toward the finish-line. 

When he did this, Crowley gasped, involuntarily grabbed his dick hard, and almost came in his trousers. But he found the wherewithal to parallel Aziraphale’s actions quickly enough to spurt his milky come into the air, and sully the outside of the garment, rather than the inside. All the better he reckoned, as he groaned, and pumped out the last bit… if he was going to ruin a clean pair of trousers, he’d rather watch it get ruined.

Aziraphale seemed oblivious to his partner’s orgasm, and continued careening. He braced himself differently on the sofa, and began to thrust his hips up and down, in addition to moving his arm up and down.

Crowley swirled his fingers lazily about in the pools of come that had landed on his stomach and shirt, and watched. “Fuck that hand,” he whispered, though it was loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. “Oh, you bad, bad angel…”

And when Aziraphale's slippery white cream shot out all over his own fist, it was with a crackling groan of, “Oh… oh no… here it comes…” 

Crowley gave an involuntary groan of his own, and shoved two fingers in his mouth to taste the emissions he had let out just a few moments before. He licked the splats of come off his fingers hungrily as he enjoyed the show, Aziraphale finishing, letting out the last oozes of his own pleasure, and then snapping to, and realising the spectacular mess he’d made.

Fortunately, he responded with a bit of drunken laughter and a joke about keeping the dry cleaner in business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would looooooove a comment from you! Just a word or two of encouragement might, indeed, keep me writing. What are your thoughts?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. Patches of Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffable pair are parked in the bookshop for the day, and some issues arise that Aziraphale just isn't ready for! But they sort of amuse Crowley...
> 
> No smut, and no particular creature comfort for now. Just some humor, some talking, some teasing... leading into the next creature comfort and a potential conflict!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think that being confined to my home 24/7 would allow me to write more often, but in fact, my lifestyle is such that being home actually gives me ZERO time to write. If I want the time, I have to fight for it... so here I am. 90% of my writing is done in coffee shops so... I'm suffering here. I feel like I'm holding in a cough by not writing what's on my mind! (No topical humor intended.)
> 
> Anyway, your patience is appreciated!

Crowley sat on the sofa in the bookshop, with the laptop open on the antique coffee table in front of him.

“So, what d’you reckon?” he asked his partner, who wandered back over to the seating area after helping a customer. “St. Tropez? Cannes? Nice? Monte Carlo? All four?”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale asked, sitting back down at his desk with a printed copy of Agnes Nutter’s second volume of prophecy.

“We said we’d do a holiday in the South of France, remember? The morning after waking up human?”

“Oh, yes, quite right,” Aziraphale said, remembering. “We said we’d do that, and then set about finding a job for you, and expanding my book stock… and have you met again with that estate agent?”

“No,” Crowley said. “But we could do that, too – move house, if you like.”

“Wait a moment,” Aziraphale said, with a bit of appalled surprise. “Is that what you’ve been looking at? Photos, or what-have-you, of the French Riviera?”

“Well… yeah. Actually, a travel booking site. Sorry, angel, but not everyone finds prophecy as bloody interesting as you.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“I did put in a solid hour of geekery.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Is that how you see it? Geekery?”

“Yes, and yet, I’m still willing to do it. For you. And for posterity. And possibly to save the planet."

"Thanks ever so, my love," Aziraphale muttered, sarcastically.

"Later, I’ll tell you what I found in dear Agnes’ great book.”

“Fine, fine.”

“Wait, no, I’ll tell you now. It said, ‘An erstwhile Daemon has nary a Place nor a Will to live, with his Nostrils entrenched in the papery Spines, most especially when sunny Coast beckons. Drop mine Volume, No-Longer-Reptilian-One, and plot a filthy, bawdy Holiday with your Cocoa-loving Angel.” His voice grew wispy, and his cadence changed to an affected rhythm, to mock the language he’d been poring over for part of the morning.

Aziraphale blinked twice and said, “Very clever.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, if you put half as much brain power into actual useful endeavours, like trying to work out what the Almighty has planned next for humankind, as you do into crafting sarcastic responses…”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley whined. “You know very well you and I are going to be left out of all of it until the Almighty decides to reveal something to humanity. And even then, we might not perceive it. We might’ve had a fighting chance when we were, you know… but now? Look, angel, I’ll help you translate or whatever, from time to time, but I’m not doing it at the expense of living our now very short lives."

"I suppose that's a good point." 

"Yes, it is. And you’re going to let me love you, damn it. So… you know… come along for the ride. What’ll it be? St. Tropez, Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, or all four?”

“Well,” Aziraphale breathed haughtily. “I don’t know. I’ve been to all of those places.”

“Me too,” Crowley sighed. After a pause, he began, “But, I will say…”

“Yes?” Aziraphale asked, after his companion trailed off and said nothing else.

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me. If you’ve got a preference, let’s hear it.”

“It’s not a preference, per se,” Crowley muttered. “It’s just, it occurs to me, I’ve never had a shag in Nice, so we might choose it… because… well...”

“Ah.”

“You asked.”

“Yes, I did. Must quit doing that,” Aziraphale murmured to himself. “So… but you have had… erm, some… form of, well…”

He continued to gesticulate with his hands, unable to quite finish the sentence, in spite of recent events.

“Sex?” Crowley asked.

“Mm,” Aziraphale grunted, putting his hands in his lap neatly. “In all of the other places you mentioned?”

“Yeah. And also in Antibes, and Menton, and Cap-Ferrat. And way back when, in Marseille, Nîmes, a little town called St.-Marcel-d’Ardèche…”

“All right, all right,” said Aziraphale, with the ‘hush, you!’ tone of an old auntie.

“Sorry. Romans settling Provence – so much excitement, so much testosterone, angel… hard to even put it into words. The place was absolutely ripe for a temptation spree! And, summer of 1939 was a big one, too. Beelzebub wanted me to get the wife of a French aristocrat - Claire Chevilles was her name - to embezzle two million Francs through a charity linked to the prison system in Toulon.”

“Why?”

“Er... you know, it was a Beelzebub thing."

"What the Hell does that mean?"

"Well, if you must know, it was revenge for Claire's parents who had resisted all attempts at gaining their immortal souls for our Infernal Master,” Crowley said, the last part with mock-gravity. “One of the other demons tried to get them to turncoat during the Great War and invest in the enemy war machine, with a guaranteed huge payout. No-go.”

“So, naturally, you shagged your way across the Riviera in 1939."

“Yeah. Because I watched her for a while, and the only people she ever listened to were her gigolos,” he shrugged. “So I swooped in and did the British playboy thing. We did a three-month-long drinking-gambling-sex bender down the coast from Italy to Spain. And we would’ve kept going, except Hitler invaded Poland.”

“And you took credit for it,” Aziraphale said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Before I understood how much I did not want to take credit for anything Hitler did.”

“Well, live and learn.”

“And she never did embezzle the money,” Crowley mused, remembering, changing the subject back to the aristocrat’s wife. “Turned out she was an alcoholic and a nymphomaniac, yet quite scrupulous with finances, much like her parents.”

“Hell couldn’t get her roped in on the drinking and gambling and nymphomania?”

“Her marriage was one of convenience – her husband had mistresses all over the free world, and expressly did not care what or who she did. She gambled with her own money, and not particularly to excess. Her alcoholism was a hereditary disease, and overall, she wasn’t hurting anyone,” Crowley shrugged. 

“I suppose that all makes sense.”

“Oh, you know what? Come to think of it, I’ve been banned from Monte Carlo – sorry. Counting cards. Well, not so much counting them, as miracling royal flushes into my hands time after time…”

“Crowley!”

“But we skipped Nice.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Let’s choose somewhere else, shall we? Sounds like you’ve been there and done it all, when it comes to the South of France.”

“Okay, somewhere else,” Crowley said, with some finality. “Just leave it to me. I’ll do all the work – flight, hotel, a few geeky Aziraphalian museum tours, the works. A two-week holiday someplace where I’ve never… you know.”

“Thank you.”

\---------------------------------------------------

The afternoon in the bookshop was busier than usual, and Aziraphale actually sold a volume or two, to people whom he felt would be worthy, and would take care of the item in question. He also answered quite a few queries about his rare Bible stock.

In addition, he turned down a very handsome monetary offer for the looted chest he had acquired from the Middle East, as well as a very handsome man who had no interest in his books.

Crowley watched the entire transaction with some amusement.

Aziraphale came back to the alcove and sat down at his desk, with an uneasy expression.

“Oh, he’s had his eye on you for a while, angel,” Crowley said, looking up from his travel booking, with a smirk.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’ve seen him before. He works at that cheese shop a block and a half away. One of the few hoity-toity places around here where we’ve only ever gone in separately.”

“Oh, right. I suppose I did feel he was familiar.”

“I bet he’s tried to chat you up before, and you didn’t notice. He didn’t even pretend to glance at that book he was carrying around in his hand. He just waited for you to finish talking with that university lady.”

“I’ll admit I did think it was odd that the book in his hand was in Aramaic.”

“He didn’t just wander in here looking for a Gutenberg original, and happen to see you, angel.”

“Oh.”

“He was dressed to the nines and…”

“…he smelled nice,” Aziraphale said, meekly.

“Mm-hm, and his hair was freshly cut. There was some effort put into that little overture, Aziraphale.”

“He asked me to dinner.” It came out almost like a confession.

“I heard,” Crowley said, leaning back on the sofa.

“And to a jazz club, and ‘who knows what else’.”

“Heard that, too.”

Aziraphale’s fretful expression deepened. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“The ‘who knows what else’ bit? Yes, as long as you think it means ‘possible blow job in the loo of the jazz club.’”

The fretful expression turned to an aghast sort of frown. “In that case, it’s an appalling thing to say to a total stranger! And also oddly specific.”

“It means ‘possibly sex,’ angel. And it’s well-established, late twentieth-century-and-after dating code language. It’s fine. It’s not appalling, it’s just how people get laid, okay?” 

“Have you ever said that to anyone?”

“Far too pedestrian for the likes of me.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t doing any canoodling in the late twentieth century – swore off it in 1941 until surprisingly recently.”

“Right. I recall.”

Aziraphale then exhaled hard, with a vexed expression.

Crowley laughed. “What’s with the face? It’s flattering.”

"No."

"Yes! Being chatted-up is flattering, especially if the chatter-upper is non-sleazy. Like him."

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what? Having to turn it down?” Crowley asked, chuckling again. “You could still catch him – invite him on holiday with us. Might be a laugh.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Of course not,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, but thoroughly enjoying ribbing the still easily-scandalised former angel. “Well, the bit about it being a laugh could be true. I did used to enjoy a good trio.”

Aziraphale continued to frown at him and asked, “What have you booked for the TWO of us?”

Crowley turned his attention to the laptop screen in front of him. “Well, after taking stock of all the places on Earth where I’ve played pug-a-nug, the only thing that’s left is a trek to the summit of Mount Everest.”

“What?” Aziraphale shouted, sitting up straight in his chair, panicked.

“Just kidding, angel. Wow, you’re easy to rile today.”

“That’s because you’re being a prat. Just tell me where we’re going.”

“Mallorca.”

“Mallorca? Really?”

“Yep,” said Crowley. “I was there in about 1715 helping the Spanish Empire spread out and wreak havoc. No sex, no temptations, just some good, solid, demonic work. Following orders, of course.”

“Lovely.”

“Now I think of it, I’ve not had it off on any of the Balearic Islands,” Crowley said. “Nor in the Northern bit of Tuscany. Nor Tibet. Nor the Vatican. Nor modern-day Argentina, nor Alaska. Shall I go on?”

“No, that’s quite all right. All of Argentina? Really?”

“Really. But Chile and Brazil are another story.”

“I had to ask.”

“Anyway, the point is, Aziraphale, don’t get it in your head that Mallorca is the only patch of Earth where I’ve not spoiled, or been spoiled.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Okay. Thank you, Crowley.”

“And actually, I’ve had surprisingly few shags in Spain itself. Just never vibed there. Especially after the Inquisition. Even my lot were disturbed by that. Didn’t see anything the likes of that again until the Nazis came along… did a lot of drinking there, though.”

Crowley talked a bit longer, but Aziraphale drifted.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale had always suspected that temptations and corruptions and the demon’s general hedonism would have necessitated a lively and interesting six-thousand-year sex life of which he had simply never spoken to Aziraphale, for obvious reasons. But a couple of months ago, the angel had actually bothered, at last, to ask outright, and had been granted with the stark reality of it. 

And when one thought about it, it was clear that Crowley had not been assigned to Earth to perform temptations for no reason. Hell had presumably taken one look at his corporeal form and sent him to bring humanity (sometimes literally) to its knees. It had not escaped Aziraphale’s notice that the tall, lithe, aloof demon (and now the man) attracted glances, sometimes leering and lustful ones, from people of all sexes, everywhere he went – he always had. His personality could be sarcastic and cutting, but ultimately it was more impish, and ridiculously magnetic when he wanted it to be. The whole package translated to a being practically built for temptation.

Aziraphale understood with perfect clarity, even before the specific revelation about having a colourful sexual past, who and what Crowley was. A debauchee. A fallen angel. A demon. He’d been a literal minion of Hell for sixty centuries, and with all of human nature, pleasures, indulgence, coaxing, compulsion wrapped up in his job, of course he’d had a million shags, in a million different places, in a million different ways. Sometimes they were an aid in urging the subject toward temptation, sometimes the sex itself was the temptation, the endgame. Sometimes, it was a means to an end, of another form, in the convoluted plot of a demon charged with corrupting humanity in small, artful ways.

Clear though he was about Crowley’s history and nature, Aziraphale loved him, loved their newfound life together, loved the overwhelming sensations he felt in being touched by Crowley. He loved it all so much that when he thought about it too hard, like now, it hurt. And so, it could be hard to hear about Crowley’s erotic adventures, hard to think about, hard to swallow as flippant comments about the French Riviera. 

But he also knew with every fibre of his being that those millions of temptation shags hadn’t truly meant much, ever, but that what had transpired between the two of them in the last couple of months meant everything. And this was the chief reason why he could hear about it, and generally not freak completely out. 

Aziraphale fully realised that he would likely never know the entire breadth and depth of the former demon’s experiences in the ways of the flesh. At times, he felt this was a shame – he’d like to know everything there was to know about his lover – especially the lascivious bits. Other times, like today, he not only was glad not to know the details, but he actually wished there was nothing to know. 

“So, when do we leave?” he asked, wishing to focus on the future. On their future together.

“Saturday the sixteenth.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said. “So, we’ve got a bit less than a month. What do we pack?”

Crowley’s face fell. “I have no idea.”

“When are we seeing Anathema again?”

“Next Friday.”

“Maybe she’ll agree to come and help, when the time comes,” Aziraphale wondered. 

“Yeah, that won’t be weird at all,” Crowley muttered. “And that boyfriend of hers is going to leave the country if we keep this up.”

Crowley’s phone made an irritating, tinkly noise just then. He pulled it from his back pocket, and looked at the display.

“Oh yeah,” he said, clearly reminded of something. “I have an appointment with my barber in an hour.”

“You do?”

Crowley nodded. “Been needing a trim in the back.” He turned his head, and tugged at the hair on the back of his head, to illustrate its need for a cropping.

“I suppose you do need a trim. I suppose I do, as well.”

“Well, just come with me.”

“Would they mind?”

“I wouldn’t think so. They take walk-ins all the time.”

Crowley had spent his entire existence paying meticulous attention to his hair. Much like his clothing, it always reflected up-to-the-minute cool, and/or desirable, before ‘cool’ was a thing. In 1860, he’d tried the first para-phenylenediamine dye, and had attempted to change his flaming red locks to a much less-conspicuous and well-ordered dark-brown numerous times since then. Annoyingly, though, his lovely (but demonic) tresses had never held a dye for longer than a few minutes, and it seemed to be magic-proof. Fortunately, the hair did grow rather quickly, so changing its style, if not its colour, had always been rather easy. 

Aziraphale’s physiology had worked similarly, in that his hair grew as a human’s might, but he had always kept it closely-cropped, no matter the time, no matter the place. And it had never occurred to him to change the colour.

Aziraphale got a delighted, faraway look in his eye.

Both men had always relished their trips to the barber for different reasons. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they just stared at each other blankly. Then, slowly, smiles began to spread across each of their faces as they wondered, “Could it be that we have a creature comfort in common?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I know for a fact you've got nowhere to go (probably). So hey, why not pass the time by leaving a comment? 
> 
> I joke around, but seriously... if you want to make quarantine less painful for someone, drop me a line!! And of course, thank you for reading. :-)


	11. Tempting Vincenzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo take a trip to the barbershop, and another creature comfort... this time, it's one they have had in common all along (besides drinking).
> 
> But conflict has been brewing all day between them (unbeknownst to Crowley) and it's about to come to a head! (No pun intended.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the protracted descriptions of Cedric's place, and of Aziraphale's creature comfort. I'm trying to build a mood, and a contrast between their two experiences.
> 
> I might note: originally, Harold was a woman. But it just seemed more apt to make it a dude, as the old-fashioned shave is a very manly thing. I think. (Actually, what the hell would I know about it?)
> 
> Not much dialog, and no smut. But sensation and tension abound! Enjoy.

Bizarrely, upon arriving at Cédric’s Tonsorium, Crowley and Aziraphale discovered they’d been frequenting the very same hair-care institution for the past fifteen years, without knowing it.

They had both chosen Cédric’s establishment for the same reason: it was a salon, masquerading as a barber shop. It had the red and white spinning pole that looked like a peppermint stick. It had black leather and chrome chairs, distressed mirrors that looked as though they had been rescued from a rubbish heap (but only around the edges), and unfinished concrete floors (but with a high shine). Each “barber’s” station was a naked wooden square, complete with combs floating in alcohol, an old-school brand of mousse, several pairs of silver scissors (also dipped in alcohol), and a shaving kit with a rough-bristled brush. On the walls were vintage posters marketing high-end whiskey, cigarettes, and cologne.

But, it was impeccably clean, and had a nonchalant independence about it. It was non-commercial (at least in theory) and non-conforming, although it was amply clear that the whole “barber shop” motif was just that: a motif. It had all been done quite on-purpose, not so as to fool anyone, but so as to be hipsterish, quirky, not like a sell-out froufrou salon for the vapid pretty people. 

But the upscale brands of shampoo and aftershave on shelves round the till rather betrayed the underlying snobbery. The dead-giveaway, though, was the staff. Besides Cédric, who was the 66-year-old, very gay, very French owner who only “worked” (read: came in to be seen, and chat up the clientele) on Thursday afternoons, there were six employees. All of them looked twenty-five (though some were a right sight older), were of course well-coiffed, and drop-dead gorgeous. There was a mix of men and women, but they all walked and talked the same way, wore all black, and gossiped like Desperate Housewives.

Aziraphale liked the place because its barber shop qualities gave it an air of old-fashioned no-nonsense. It seemed to be a place where he could get a haircut, a shave, the occasional new aftershave, no fuss no muss. But, he had always been an angel of discerning tastes, and was now a man of discerning tastes, who could plainly see that the place was not your average roughly-hewn, hole-in-the-wall hair-cuttery. He would never admit it, but he rather liked the understated snobbish flair that purportedly stayed below the radar, as if winking from behind the trendy Monstera in the corner, potted in a square chrome planter.

Crowley liked it because, well, it was a hipster joint, and he was a hipster. He liked things classic, but stylish – like his Bentley, and the music he listened to. He gravitated toward things that were masculine, but cool rather than coarse – like his clothes and his demeanour, and his flat, and just about everything about him. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in a salon that had been set up to look like a hotel lobby, or a yoga studio, obviously. However, he had some fairly specific requests concerning his hair, and he did need someone other than a barber trained by his father to shave heads and give bowl haircuts.

Cédric’s Tonsorium was the perfect balance for the two of them. 

When they walked in, Crowley’s regular stylist was standing at the front.

“Mr. Crowley,” said the man (who could have been twenty-eight or forty-eight) with a little bow, understatedly, as he had been expecting him. “Lovely to see you, as always.”

“Hi, V.,” Crowley said, with a little wave. 

V. was short for Vincenzo – the nametag on his workstation said Vincenzo Peruggia. Upon seeing it, nine years ago when V. started at Cédric’s, Crowley had decided he absolutely could not call this man by that name. It was clearly an affectation. Crowley had known the real Vincenzo Peruggia, and had, in 1911, tempted him into stealing the Mona Lisa. V.’s real name was probably Brian Johnson or something, but he had decided to adopt the most audacious Italian name he could think of.

Though, Crowley couldn’t quite blame him. If he had, indeed, been born with a boring, pedestrian English name, it would not suit him. The man was conventional beauty personified – square jaw and a closely-sculpted, barely-there beard to match it. Light brown, crystalline eyes, a perfectly tanned, non-English skin tone, and of course, a muscular (but not overstated) physique. 

Crowley had never been much of a fan of “conventional” beauty, especially in humans, but he definitely knew it when he saw it.

V.’s gaze shifted to Crowley’s right. “And Mr. Fell, lovely to see you, as well! I'm so sorry, did we lose your appointment?”

“No, no, Vincenzo,” said Aziraphale. “I’m just, you know… tagging along. Hoping you’d have time for a walk-in.”

V. smiled, and began to point back and forth at the two of them with his index finger. “Wait a minute. You two know each other?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “Yeah,” Crowley said. “For… oh, a long time. A very, very long time.”

“Aeons,” Aziraphale chimed in.

“Well, fancy that!” V. said, with a delighted smile. “And are you two… you know… a thing?”

Once more, the two of them looked at each other. Aziraphale said, uncertainly, "Erm, a thing? Does that mean..."

Crowley cut in, “Again, yes. For aeons. Do you have a second opening just now, or not?”

“We do,” said V. “Mr. Fell, go ahead and sit down in your usual chair. It just so happens that Mister Harold is here, and has had a cancellation this afternoon.”

“Wonderful, thank you.” Aziraphale said, as he went off to the left and settled into the chair he had been occupying for approximately a half-hour, once every nine weeks, for the past fifteen years. V. called into an adjacent room for a second stylist, and escorted Crowley to a chair on the opposite side of the room from Aziraphale.

The two of them began tittering immediately about the sort of cut Crowley wanted (just a trim in the back and sides, maybe tame the front just a tad), countered by suggestions from V. 

"I'm telling you, a closely-shaved militaristic look, it would make you irresistible," V. was saying. 

Aziraphale thought, "Because six thousand years of successful tempting wasn't enough, and now Crowley needs help being irresistible. Right."

“Do you know,” V. said to his irresistible client at some point just after fastening the plastic cape round Crowley’s neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without those yellow contacts.”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, really?”

“Soulful brown eyes suit you, my friend.”

Before a minute had gone by, an efficiently gorgeous man with yellow hair turned up behind Aziraphale, excited to see him. He began draping a plastic cape over his client, as they greeted each other, and he asked after the bookshop.

Fastening it, Harold asked, “A shave and a haircut, yes?”

“Of course.”

And so it went. Harold tipped his chair back, and immediately, Aziraphale felt more relaxed. He reclined, knowing that he didn’t have to do or say anything more, that this lovely, generous, professional person would take care of him for the next half-hour, and he’d come out of it feeling clean and fresh.

Harold began by laying a hot, moist towel over Aziraphale’s face. It was bracing at first, but the sting turned to a penetrating warmth, and the client could practically feel his pores opening one by one. His eyes remained closed, and he began to hear a rhythmic scraping sound. He knew that it was his barber, sweeping the razor back and forth over a long piece of metal, sharpening it for the shave. It was a satisfying sound, the sound of prepping, ramping up to something else even more satisfying. It was akin to the chesty sputter of a vintage car starting up (a Bentley, perhaps?) or the pick-up note at the beginning of a concerto.

After another minute or so, he felt the towel removed, and cool air caressed his face. Next, he felt Harold’s hands begin to rub moisturiser into his skin. The man’s fingertips dug into the muscles of Aziraphale’s cheeks and jaw just so, and as usual, the latter realised he’d been quite tense. He envisioned his face as a wad of dough, and Harold as the baker, kneading out the stubborn clumps of flour. It felt cool, fresh, soft, and the mini-massage was exactly what had been needed on a day like today. 

The moisturiser was left this way for a few moments, and then Harold used a second hot towel to clean off the excess. Once again it was bracing, but it opened up the pores, and allowed the comforting heat to infuse his skin.

Aziraphale stayed in his laid-back position while listening to another soothing sound. The barber was now mixing the foam he would put on Aziraphale’s face as a shaving cream. The former angel knew that 3,000 years ago or so, people in the aesthetics trade had begun to use animal fat for this task; frankly he was more fond of the recent trend of using water, glycerin, and a cocktail of other modern chemicals, in spite of himself.

And then, Harold used a rough brush to spread the shaving cream over his client’s face, anywhere that facial hair might be wont to grow. Aziraphale rather enjoyed the brush massage as well, as Harold was careful not to get any of the white substance on his lips, nose or ears, using a certain precision. He paid special attention to the chin, where most of the stubble was, and whose curve was likely to give the razor the most challenge. It always surprised Aziraphale how long this particular process took, but he didn’t mind. It was a bit of pampering, and he’d never been one to shy away from that. Within reason, of course.

Harold then proceeded with the razor. He pulled all the parts of Aziraphale’s face satisfyingly taut before dragging the razor sideways down over the slightly rough skin. The sound it made could have been unpleasant, but instead, Aziraphale focused on it as a sound of cleanliness. Each movement it made over his cheeks and chin resulted in a bit of his skin exposed to cool air, and it felt quite lovely.

As usual, the most difficult bit was the chin and the area just below his lip. He knew that Harold needed him to relax and utterly not participate in the process, and so he did. He liked to pretend that his face was made of jelly, and it was Harold’s job simply to mould it – he had no control.

Finally, with another hot towel laid over his face, Harold’s hands massaged the excess shaving cream away, and sighed, “There we go, now.”

The entire process took about fifteen minutes from beginning to end, and when the barber tilted the chair back upright, Aziraphale already felt fresher than when he had arrived.

And then, Harold set about cutting his hair. They did not speak – they never did. It was a comfortably silent affair. Harold merely clipped while Aziraphale allowed himself to be attended-to. And he could see in the mirror, on the other side of the room, Crowley being coiffed by Vincenzo. That is, whenever Harold was not in the way.

“Nearly done, Mr. Fell,” Harold said, after another fifteen minutes… and then the phone rang. “Oh, damn. I’m so sorry – do you mind if I get that?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said. “Do what you need to do.”

“Back in a jif,” the stylist promised, tossing the scissors into alcohol and hurrying off to the front desk. “Cédric’s Tonsorium, how may I assist you today?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were then drawn over his shoulder, as he now had an unobstructed view of Crowley and Vincenzo.

The former angel was naïve at times, but he was no fool. He knew that a large part of the “service” industry in the last couple hundred years was superficial – niceties, compliments, appealing to vanity. He knew that probably a large part of Vincenzo’s job was flirting with the clientele, or at the very least, making them feel welcome in an appealing, sexy way. 

And yet, watching him lay hands on Crowley, and behave in a way that suggested completely that he fancied his client… Aziraphale felt a flush of something. It was completely familiar and a bit foreign, at the same time.

The familiar bit was the surge of love, and of feeling so very lucky to be loved in return, and wanted, touched, handled, made love to, by such a magnificent specimen – supernatural or mortal, demon or man, whatever he may be. He gloated a bit inside, and relished in the idea that Vincenzo, beautiful though he was, would only ever be Crowley’s stylist. He would only ever touch the silky red hair, and perhaps the scalp and shoulders, whereas Aziraphale… well…

And he blushed a bit. He could see himself blushing in the mirror.

But the unfamiliar bit was a stronger version of something that had been brewing slowly over the course of the day. It was not unrelated to the love he felt, but there was an uneasy aspect to it. Being who he was, or rather, who he had been for most of his life, he could not put his finger on it.

They’d spent more time than usual today talking about Crowley’s carnal history – the widow on the French Riviera, Romans settling Provence, and the handful of places where he had not actually seen any “action” of that sort. Not to mention, the discomfort of being chatted-up by the man from the cheese shop and having Crowley joke that they might like to invite him along on their holiday…

…Aziraphale’s stomach did a flip. A name for this feeling was on the tip of his tongue…

And then both Vincenzo and Crowley stopped talking. For about a minute, the stylist moved around his client with scissors, examining, adjusting, making tiny snips here and there, concentrating on a job well-done. Then, he decided he was finished, and asked, “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Crowley answered. “Thank you.”

“Want some mousse?”

“’Course I do,” Crowley said flippantly, in his Crowley way. “What kind of a question is that?”

So, V. sprayed a mound of mousse into his palm, the rubbed his hands together. With that, he reached forward and brought all ten fingers across Crowley’s scalp and through his hair. As he did this, Crowley’s eyes closed, and something like a vindicated grin spread over V.’s face.

And there was that pang in Aziraphale’s gut again.

Then, Vincenzo repeated the action, pulling both hands through Crowley’s hair, only it seemed to Aziraphale that this time, he did it more slowly, and with stiffer fingers.

In response, Crowley didn’t just close his eyes, he also let out a long exhale. He was barely suppressing the noise from his throat that comes with that sort of exhale…

On the third pass, as he got about halfway through, V. pressed his fingers taut together and pulled, just hard enough to slightly bend Crowley’s swan-like neck.

And Crowley gave surprised, but not dismayed, grunt.

Vincenzo tugged again, harder this time, and Crowley smiled. Out of his mouth came his favourite expletive, a curt, sweet, “Fuck!” in the form of a half-groan, half-laugh.

“Mm, you like it rough, yeah?” Vincenzo muttered to him. 

V. thought he was being discreet, but Aziraphale could hear every disgusting syllable.

And the former angel, who had never confronted this emotion before, thought he might break into sobs. He understood now. He had a name for it. 

This ‘jealousy’ was so acute, and so big, and so unknown, he had no idea where to place the explosion in him, waiting to happen. His breath hitched in his throat, and he held it, determined not to make a show of this sudden pain.

He knew his lover well. He knew that expletive. He knew that half-groan, half-laugh. And he knew what happened when Crowley got his hair pulled. The rougher the better.

He reckoned V. probably knew what happened as well. As did literally tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people, throughout history.

Aziraphale’s head spun.

“Sorry about that,” Harold chirped behind him, returning to his work station.

Aziraphale stood up, and shed the plastic cape currently draped over his shoulders and chest. He pulled a long, flat wallet from a pocket inside of his suit coat, and extracted two hundred-pound notes, and held them out to his barber.

“Thank you, Harold,” he said. “Well done, as usual.”

“But I’m not quite finished,” Harold protested, not taking the offering.

“That’s quite all right. I find that I don’t feel very well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But this is too much money…”

“Just take it!” Aziraphale said, louder than necessary.

And much to his chagrin, both Crowley and Vincenzo’s attention was drawn by this outburst.

“O-okay,” said Harold, taking the money. “Was it something I did?”

“No, nothing you did,” Aziraphale said, making a brisk break for the door.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” he heard Crowley spitting as he moved. He heard the rustle of another plastic cape being wrestled with.

“Mr. Crowley, I’m so sorry,” he heard Vincenzo whine, just before the Tonsorium’s door slammed behind him.

In the old days, if he didn’t want to be caught, he would have been able to snap his fingers and disappear, reappearing back in the safety of his bookshop. It would have taken an enormous amount of energy to do so, but it would have been possible, and worth the reprimand he might have received.

But as things stood, he simply had to walk efficiently around the corner, and hope not to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, quarantine is kicking my ass. Feedback motivates me to keep going... and right now, I'm really looking for motivation.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	12. Phone Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After jealousy drove Aziraphale out of the barbershop, Crowley has got some work (and some explaining) to do.
> 
> One more chapter with no smut, but the seeds are planted!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're happy (or at least satisfied) with how this turns out. I really can't see Aziraphale being persistently bitchy about something this brief/benign. We all have our freak-outs, but see, that's why Crowley gives him three hours to cool off...
> 
> This chapter also very briefly touches on a suggestion made in the comments about Aziraphale being seen-to by a male barber - perhaps a female would be safer. It was worth mentioning, I think, and it reflects one facet of how I see Crowley and Aziraphale, and their relationship.

Crowley paid for his haircut without looking Vincenzo or Harold in the eye. He had initially chased Aziraphale out the door after ripping off his cape, and he could have caught him. But seeing the briskness of his stride, and the hunching-over of his shoulders inside that fussy Victorian coat, Crowley’s heart broke a little, and he couldn’t move any further. He stopped in his tracks and went back inside the Tonsorium to settle up.

V. tried apologising once again, claiming he’d “forgot his manners” and “should’ve been more professional.” Both of those things went without saying, but Crowley muttered a barely-audible, “s’all right, wasn’t your fault,” before leaving, and climbing into the Bentley.

Like himself, when upset, what Aziraphale had always needed was time. Just time. Time to get perspective, time to rationalise, and to think about how to proceed. In the past, the angel had taken decades to get over being angry about something Crowley might have said or done, and vice versa. Now, Crowley hoped a few hours might do the trick – they didn’t have decades for this sort of rubbish.

So now that he was in the car, where would he go? Home? To an empty flat? Aziraphale almost certainly hadn’t gone back there, and Crowley absolutely did not fancy being there just now on his own. 

He set his phone timer for three hours. When it went off, he would phone the bookshop, explain himself, and ask to be forgiven. 

Forgiven. That word had always been a prickly one for him, but there was no way around it, under the circumstances, and he accepted that. But how would he kill these hours? He had to remind himself that he couldn’t get blind drunk and hope to sober up enough in time to speak any sense to Aziraphale.

He had, on occasion, hung out at a particular billiards hall when he felt in need of a pick-me-up, but that was because the cocktail waitresses there always flirted with him – he didn’t need any of that just now. 

There were coffee shops, of course, restaurants, pubs, parks, all of which could be excellent for killing a few hours. It all sounded hollow.

For a brief few moments, he thought of sleep. It was the most efficient way to manipulate time, at least in one’s own world – it could be made to go faster. But he couldn’t just stretch out on a park bench, so it was back to waiting.

But, he reckoned, if he’d survived the fourteenth century, waiting out the Black Death underground, and put up with the utter lack of fun anywhere in the known world, he could wait three hours to speak to Aziraphale.

In the old days, the Bentley would more or less drive itself to the bookshop, drawn there particularly when the demon was despondent. Now the big, old, awesome car needed petrol and steering, and it took a Herculean effort for Crowley not to gravitate to Soho. Nevertheless, he did manage to veer outside of London. He wound up in Brighton, but he had nothing in particular on his agenda, so he wound up getting out of the car just for a kebab, and eating it on the way back to the city.

Though he took almost no pleasure in it.

\------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale might have been able to abide the Vincenzo incident a bit better if he hadn’t spent such a large chunk of the day contemplating the idea of other people interfering in their relationship. Crowley had talked freely of exploits all over the South of France, and had made a joke about how the summit of Mount Everest was the only place he hadn’t had a shag. Then, a man from the fromagerie down the street, who had introduced himself as Craig Huling, appeared in the bookshop to proposition Aziraphale. The experience had been, to him, appalling, as being propositioned was not normal for him, and he hadn’t been sure how to handle it. Part of him felt that it was inappropriate for anyone to proposition anyone… but he also knew that was absurd. He was still learning to navigate these waters, and he was clumsy at it, and had no desire to contemplate navigating them with anyone other than Crowley.

And when Huling had left, he hadn’t particularly expected Crowley to get all demonic and territorial, but he also hadn’t expected to be ribbed about not wanting to say no to Mr. Huling, and perhaps inviting him on a fun holiday as a ‘trio,’ either. He knew full well that the suggestion had been in jest, but also that Crowley could fully see his angel’s discomfort, and should have known that the proposition had caused more than just ‘discomfort.’ 

He’d known it back when Shakespeare had made a pass at Aziraphale during a special performance of ‘Hamlet,’ how could he not know it now?

But then, there was the enjoyment of a new creature comfort at the barbershop, the Tonsorium, where they both indulged in a bit of pampering. It was rather a boon to discover that they both frequented the same establishment, and both enjoyed the same sorts of sensory experiences there, and it had been restorative to Aziraphale’s somewhat troubled spirit. Things were looking up...

Until Vincenzo had asked Crowley if he wanted mousse. It had all been downhill from there.

Aziraphale was currently sitting on the sofa in his bookshop, the one usually occupied by Crowley, just now finishing up a Gyro from the same place where Crowley had picked them up a few days before. It was cosy food to him, as he had been enjoying their fare for over sixty years, since the current owner’s grandfather had opened the place, and he did now feel a bit better, with a belly full of melt-in-your-mouth lamb, homemade pita, and extra tzatziki sauce.

Three hours he’d sat in his old, musty, homey bookshop, contemplating all of this (minus the time he’d spent picking up dinner), and he hadn’t been able to get the sound of Crowley’s groan out of his mind. That throaty moan/laugh, coupled with a low, growled ‘fuck!’ Aziraphale had been experiencing a dichotomy of sensation, as the memory was both arousing and crushing. Hearing that sound, recalling it, was titillating. But knowing how it was induced made his stomach hit the floor.

When the phone rang, it interrupted an uneasy idyll, and Aziraphale jumped, making an involuntary, frightened grunt.

Clutching at his chest, and murmuring “Good Heavens!” he stood up, crossed to his desk, sat down again, and picked up the phone.

“Hello, A.Z. Fell and Company Bookseller, I’m afraid we are closed.”

“Angel, it’s me.”

“Oh. Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said curtly. “I trust you’ve been having a pleasant evening.”

“Fuck, no,” Crowley spat. “It’s been Hell. Figuratively speaking, of course, but you know, coming from me, it's still saying something.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“No, don’t you dare say you’re sorry. If my evening was Hell, I bloody well deserved it.”

“Crowley…”

“I deserve Hell,” Crowley said, flatly, and with some finality. “I suppose that’s no surprise, eh?”

“Crowley, stop it. I can’t bear the melodrama. It’s been a whole blasted day of it, and that’s what’s brought us here! Can you please just…” Aziraphale tutted after trailing off.

“Just what?”

“Actually, Crowley, I do have some things to say, but before I do, I’d like to concede that I might have overreacted a bit.”

“Excuse me?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I know it was a misstep. A slip. I know you love me, and I should’ve handled myself with more decorum.”

There was a pause. “Do you also know that I’ve never loved anyone else? Ever? Nor could I ever?”

“Yes. And I feel the same. I’m in love with you, and I have been for centuries – helplessly so. And you are the only… my only.”

He said these words quite sweetly, and Aziraphale was fairly certain then that he heard the distinctly short breath of a former demon unable to hold back tears.

“Oh, it’s so good to hear you say that,” Crowley managed to croak. "It also hurts just a little. Fine line, they say."

“This is a bump in the road, my love, that’s all. We’re far more solid than some stupid expletive coming out of your mouth, when a good-looking man pulls your hair. Even if it gave you a twinge…”

“I don’t even think he is that good-looking.”

“Oh hush, of course he is. But here it is, Crowley. This is what I would like to say. Are you ready to hear it?"

"Absolutely. Lay it on me."

"All right. Now, think of how much I love you. And think of how much you love me.”

“I can’t think of anything else, angel.”

Aziraphale’s voice turned, almost involuntarily, hard. “Now think about how it would feel to hear that I’d shagged may way up and down the French coast, not to mention the testosterone-soaked Roman occupation of Provence, with all those sweaty officers travelling without their women, and building arenas and whatnot. And think about knowing that THAT is just a blip in my history! Think about the legions of faceless people to whom I might have given eye-crossing orgasms. Picture me on my knees with someone else’s phallus in my mouth. Or mine in theirs. Think of me moaning a name you’ve never heard whilst shuddering in a paroxysm of pleasure… even if it’s a ruse, and even if you know it’s you I’ve wanted all along.”

“Shit,” Crowley hissed.

“And think how it would feel to know that it’s all real. And to hear me talk about it with a big, indulgent smile on my face, and hear jokes about it, and suggestions of adding more flesh to the mix."

“I think that might turn me inside out,” Crowley admitted. “And not in the good way.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I know who and what you are, Crowley – or at least, what you were. I know your erstwhile purpose and vocation in this funny old life we’ve led. I know your personality, and your proclivities – I’ve known all of that for ages. So, of course you've got quite a long history of this sort of thing. But being confronted with the truth of it can sometimes be difficult.”

“I understand.”

“So, I’m not going to tell you how sickly I’ve been feeling for the past three hours. I’m not going to tell you specifically how it made me feel hearing you give that unmistakable indicator of arousal to Vincenzo. But I will say, I reacted the way I did because you compounded upon me quite a number of things that tested my patience today, and pushed past the limit my ability to be a bigger man than the jealousy that had begun to consume me."

"I did. I see it. I did that to you."

"And if we wish for things like this not to happen in the future, I would ask you to be mindful of that.”

“I will, angel. I absolutely will.”

“Having said that, I would rather sheepishly admit that I enjoy your depth of experience, as it has served me very well.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The other night when we were making a mess of the kitchen, and you said we had achieved perfection because it wasn’t your first rodeo… well, indeed. And I’d hate to think of what our sex life would be like if we were both fumbling in the dark. But benefitting from your years of experience, and being asked to hear about them and laugh them off whimsically…”

“…two different kettles of fish?”

“Quite.”

Crowley sniffed again. “I can’t believe I’ve fucked this up so royally already.”

“Haven’t you been listening? You haven’t fucked it up!” Aziraphale insisted. “I just need you to be more impeccable with your words and behaviours, keeping in mind that I’m a bit of a prude, and yet I love you with my whole body. And it is startlingly easy to hurt me.”

“What have I done to deserve you?” Crowley practically whimpered.

“Plenty. Now, can you cease any contemplation of self-flagellation and just apologise, clean and clear?”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and then Crowley cleared his throat. Cleanly, evenly, he spoke the words, “Angel, I am so sorry. Nothing like that will ever, ever happen again. I swear it.”

“Accepted, my love. Thank you,” Aziraphale said with some measure of relief. There was another silence, and then Aziraphale asked, “But I still have to ask: what the Hell was that today, Crowley?”

“The thing with V?”

“Yes!”

“I guess I just… forgot. Not about you, but about V. Daft, I know."

"I don't follow." 

"I was kind of ecstatic to find that you and I had both been going to Cédric’s all these years. But it had inconveniently slipped my mind that one of the reasons I enjoy that particular creature comfort is that V. does an amazing job styling my hair, but he’s also a little… you know, rough.”

“Rough.”

“He twists and pulls harder than other barbers or stylists I’ve had. I noticed it straight away, and… well, you know what it does to me. And by the time V. started working there, I’d been keeping myself on a shelf out of the reach of others for sixty-some years. It felt good. So I kept going back. I liked the stimulation. And technically, nothing ever happened…”

“But he always knew he was arousing you?”

“Oh, yes. He knows.”

There was a pause, and Aziraphale sighed. “He’s propositioned you, hasn’t he?”

“Quite a few times.”

“You’ve always declined?”

“Yes! What kind of a question is that?”

“Even though he’s gorgeous?”

“Honestly not my type, Aziraphale."

“And yet, you kept going back?”

Crowley stammered a bit. “It… it… er, well, seemed harmless enough.”

Aziraphale sighed again. “I suppose that’s true. At the end of the day it is, basically harmless.”

“But I won’t go back. I’ll ask for someone else next time – V. will understand.”

“If you switched to a woman, would that help?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ehhh, probably not. I’m an equal-opportunity sort of demon. At least, I used to be.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“What? You know who I was, how I was made. I've always loved you, but I don’t necessarily prefer men, or male angels or whatever, it’s about YOU. I prefer you. Everyone else is just… you know, temptation fodder." There was a contemplative pause between the two of them, and then Crowley asked, genuinely curious, "Why, do you prefer men?”

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale chuckled. “As you said, it’s about loving you, and no one else.”

“Okay, actually, you know what? Maybe I do like men a bit better, but only because they’re stronger and, well, rougher. Which… actually, now I think of it, women don’t pull as hard when they’re coiffing me, so maybe it would work with a female stylist.”

“Crowley, just tell me: are there other people you go to because they’re… rough? Massage therapists? Dentists? Cashiers at Tesco?”

“Just V.,” said Crowley. “He’s a tiny indulgence in a seventy-eight-year absence of sex. That’s it.” 

“I see. Are there others you go to because they… say things to you? Talk dirty, or whatnot? Vincenzo asked you if you like it rough…”

“No,” Crowley said with finality. “I mean, no, there are no others I go to for that reason.”

“All right. I accept that.”

Then there was a pause, and Crowley could be heard to breathe in and breathe out. Then, he asked evenly, “Angel, are we okay? Because I just thought of something.”

“Are we okay? I suppose. What are you thinking?”

“Are you sure? Because this is the sort of thing I really need you to invest in.”

“We’re okay. I understand about the barbershop, and your past. What’s on your mind, Crowley?”

Crowley’s voice dropped to something secretive, seductive. “Well, you brought up the dirty talk. And forgive me, angel, but I know you’re an avid fan.”

“We have learnt that, haven’t we?”

“And this whole thing got dialled up to eleven because you were feeling lost in a long series of my, erm, exploits.”

“Yes, and?”

“I reckon that you worry about there being nothing I haven’t done. No fleshly activity I haven’t tried. There’s nothing new for the two of us… other than Mallorca, for example. Am I right?”

“Er… yes, I suppose I do worry about that.”

“Yes, granted, a couple of weeks ago I told you that I’d never made love to anyone but you.”

“I did adore hearing that.”

“It’s very, very true. But you must have realised that the acts themselves were things I’d done before.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Which doesn’t take away the depth of feeling that we experience, of course. Making love is a whole different ballgame to anything I’d ever done before being with you.”

“Crowley, what are you getting at?”

Crowley chuckled wickedly. “You see, there is one area of sex I have never explored. A limited category of acts and concepts I haven’t tried.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely surprised.

“Mm-hm,” Crowley lilted. “Fancy a bit of experimentation? Nowish?”

“Now? How now?"

“Yes, now. What’s in your hand, angel?”

“Erm… the telephone receiver.”

“Indeed. Let the games begin. That is, if you want them to.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to beg, borrow, cheat, and steal in order to get the down-time I need to write, during the quarantine. Can I hear from you, so I know that the effort is not in vain? :-D
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	13. Breaking New Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After apologising, and making sure all is well, our pair indulge in some phone sex - a first for Crowley.
> 
> It's a lot of talk, but pretty quality smut, nevertheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hearkens back to chapter 1, when we discovered the origins of Crowley's fantasies about his favourite angel. Although, I think you'll find it's slightly incomplete ;-).

Making amends was never easy, but Crowley was confident he could do it. 

“Angel, are we okay? Because I just thought of something.”

“We’re okay. I understand about the barbershop, and your past. What’s on your mind, Crowley?”

Crowley’s voice dropped to something secretive, seductive. “Well, you brought up the dirty talk. And forgive me, angel, but I know you’re an avid fan. And this whole thing got dialled up to eleven because you were feeling lost in a long series of my, erm, exploits. I reckon that you worry about there being nothing I haven’t done. No fleshly activity I haven’t tried. There’s nothing new for the two of us… other than Mallorca, for example. Am I right?”

“Er… yes, I suppose I do worry about that… Crowley, what are you getting at?”

“You see, there is one area of sex I have never explored. A limited category of acts and concepts I haven’t tried. Fancy a bit of experimentation? Nowish?”

“Now? How now?”

“Yes, now. What’s in your hand, angel?”

“Erm… the telephone receiver.”

“Indeed. Let the games begin. That is, if you want them to.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Crowley cooed. “You know I kept my naughty bits to myself after the incident in the church in 1941. Technology as we know it has come an awfully long way since then.”

“T-technology?”

“I mean, they had phones in 1941, but ordinary people had party lines and whatnot, and phone sex didn’t go mainstream until the late sixties.”

“Oh! I see.”

“So, help me out here, angel. What would I have to say to make you rock hard?”

A little hitch in Aziraphale’s breath could be heard then. “I-I beg your pardon?”

Crowley smiled. “I want to make you hard,” he growled. “Those pedantic trousers of yours, when they tent in the front, it’s so annoyingly hot. The thought of it makes my own trousers feel a bit tight.”

“Oh, Crowley, this is so odd…”

“Then tell me what I have to do to make it go from ‘odd’ to hurriedly trying to get out of your linen pants. What’s going to get you going, angel? Let me make your cock stand up.”

“You already know how to do that,” Aziraphale said, timidly.

“Yes, but I think you’ll find that the whole point of this exercise is for you to tell me.”

“Crowley, this is really outside of my, er, comfort zone, as they say.”

“Then have a drink.”

“Oh. Do you really think I should?”

That whiny, uncertain question, 'do you really think I should?' was one he had heard at least a million times. That question had been, for so long, his objective. Aziraphale had asked it of him at least a hundred times, concerning minor things, like drinking Absinthe, and letting Crowley take the reins on a blessing/temptation combo on Guernsey. When people got to the point of asking that question, they already knew the answer, and were simply looking for approval. Crowley smiled with a combination of wickedness and nostalgia, upon hearing it again.

“Well, only if you want to,” Crowley said, sounding understanding and soulful, feeling as though he was back in his wheelhouse.

“I mean… should we really do this? Over the phone?”

Crowley’s voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “Only if you think it’s important that you and I have experiences that are unique to us. You and me, angel. If you feel that we should build a repertoire together, that’s just ours, memories that are unfettered. But if you aren’t interested…”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! All right,” Aziraphale interrupted, seeing through the temptation spiel. “Shut up, you wily old demon. Hold the line – I’ll be right back.”

He could hear Crowley laughing on the other end as he set the phone down. He rolled his eyes as he hurried into the adjoining room. He poured himself about two fingers’ width of single-malt Scotch in a tumbler, and downed it in two gulps. He had already removed his coat and bowtie. Now he unfastened his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. He had learned his lesson, and did think of the potential mess this sort of thing would make. But he just couldn't bring himself to remove his trousers yet. Not here. Not all alone...

He picked up the old-fashioned telephone base and attached receiver and manoeuvred it from the rolltop desk to the sofa. He then sat down on the cushion beside it and caught his breath. He could feel the Scotch infusing his blood already – this was a welcome side-effect to being human: a lot less alcohol was needed to feel relaxed.

He took a deep breath, feeling a bit looser than he had two minutes before, and picked up the receiver. “All right, I’m here.”

“Lovely. So, where were we? Oh yes, making your dick hard. How shall we go about it?”

With a bit of alcohol in him, Crowley's words - and indeed his voice - went straight to Aziraphale's crotch. He felt one big, solid throb, and knew that his partner’s objective would be quite easily met.

“It won’t be difficult,” Aziraphale said, meekly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking about. You clearly have something on your mind.”

“I’m thinking of the last time you got aroused in your shop,” Crowley said, just above a whisper.

“I remember,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“Do you remember what you asked me to do?”

“If I recall correctly, I asked you to taste me all over.”

“Mm. And I did, didn’t I?” Crowley asked, his voice lilting, almost graduating to a sexy, heavy whine. “Right there in the bookstore against a shelf, angel. I got down on my knees and licked across your hips, and the insides of your thighs.”

“I was shocked, and so new at it… I’d no idea what to do.”

“Oh, but you learned. You learned quickly, you naughty pleasure-seeker. I tasted your salty skin, and you moaned, like you knew exactly what I needed to hear,” Crowley continued, murmuring secretly. “The smell of your sweat filled my head and suddenly, all I wanted to do was taste your come.”

“M-mine?”

“Yours, and no-one else’s ever again. All I wanted was to bury that big hungry cock of yours in my mouth and suck on it until my mouth was full of cream and salt and throbbing flesh. And I got my wish, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Aziraphale breathed. “It was glorious.”

“You pulled my hair when you filled mouth, angel. Now THAT was glorious. Everything I had ever wanted, all in one divinely filthy moment. Well, not everything… that comes later.”

“Indeed.”

“And then what did I do, angel? With that mouthful you gave me, what did I do next?”

“You swallowed it all,” Aziraphale responded, eyes shut, as though in a trance. He mentally leaned on the alcohol to make him say the words. “You swallowed my come like you were starving for it.”

“You’re right, I was starving for it,” Crowley hissed. “I’d waited millennia to taste you, to feel it slide down my throat, all slippery and warm and… oh, it was too much! Too much, so fucking hot and electric I couldn’t hold my load. Pumped it out like a fucking fiend.”

“Absolutely you’re a fiend! With your frenzied demonic lust, going splat all over the carpet of my perfect bookshop!”

Crowley gave a cool laugh. “Oh angel, you have no idea how fucking erotic that sight was for me.”

“It would be almost poetic for the two of us, if it weren’t so damn vulgar.”

“You bloody loved it,” Crowley scolded.

“Of course I did."

“So, tell me angel: what’s the state of your trousers?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and found that indeed, there was a tent up front. His cock had hardened completely, just speaking and listening. No touch, no sight, no burning-hot breath on his skin. 

It was like a new language.

“They’ve… expanded,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Good,” Crowley sang. “Mine, too. I think we’re pretty good at this already, don’t you? I’m already rubbing myself through my trousers.”

“As am I now,” Aziraphale whispered, palming the bulge through the fabric.

“Shall we continue?”

“Yes, I think we’d better.”

“Shall we get even dirtier?”

“You’ll have to take the lead.”

“Because I have a story to tell you that… actually, it might be a bit much for you.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

“It’s rather filthy, Aziraphale. And it’s about you.”

“Give me filthy,” demanded the bookseller, who slouched on his antique sofa in his antique bookshop with an angry erection, and glazed-over eyes.

Crowley chuckled demonically, as this had been the exact sort of demand he’d been hoping to elicit. 

“Have you ever wondered when my fantasies about you and your indecent enjoyment of fine cuisine began?”

“You’ve told me ancient Rome.”

“Mm-hm, that night we had oysters.”

“Oysters,” Aziraphale echoed, closing his eyes, imagining.

“You got a bit pornographic in devouring them,” Crowley explained. “At least to me, at the time. You moaned, and called them divine, you asked for more and more, and licked your lips and sighed. And all the while, I’m watching, filling up on wine and the same aphrodisiac as you.”

“I didn’t know it was an aphrodisiac. I admit, I had a skosh of tumescence myself that night. Well, more than a skosh, really.”

“Really?”

“My toga was suddenly a tent, and I’ll confess now to pressing my palm to it. Just for a moment, until I, you know… got all angelic again.”

Crowley groaned, with the same moan-laugh he’d given earlier in response to the hair-pull. This felt vindicating for Aziraphale, as it was merely the thought of his angel’s arousal that had pressed this outburst out of him.

“Well, I can’t claim to have got angelic in the least,” Crowley told him. “I went back to my room that night, and I couldn’t calm down. My dick was hard as rock from thinking about you, so I stripped off all my clothes and lay down on the bed.”

“Oh, I like that image,” Aziraphale moaned. “I adore it.”

Crowley heard a ‘vvvp’ sound then, and asked, “Angel, have you just unzipped your trousers?”

“I have.”

“And have you got a big, throbbing hard-on in your hand?”

“I have.”

“And are you going to rub it while we talk?

“I am.”

“Brilliant. Me, I’m going to wait until it’s all over before I get off. Okay?”

“Suit yourself,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t be exercising any sort of control. Done with that rubbish.”

“Mm, you’re a bad angel,” Crowley growled. “Do you think perhaps you should cut your losses and get completely out of your clothes? I plan on making a mess of you."

"Just talk. I'll worry about the clothing."

"All right, then. So there I was, laid out on the bed in a boarding house in Rome after seeing you, and I let my mind go back to the restaurant. And I built a fantasy around your slutty oyster binge, with the moaning and the slurping. I wrapped my hand around my dick and imagined that I was sitting across the table from you, fucking my fist as I watched you eat, and practically orgasm over the food.”

“Ah, it makes so much sense now,” Aziraphale mused.

“I imagined your lips smacking, and each time, I edged a bit closer. And then, in my fantasy, you told me I must try one, so you stood up, crossed to me, and held an oyster shell near my mouth.” 

“Sounds like something I might do.”

“You told me to suck it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale gave a little moan. “Now that is a bit less like me. Especially back then.”

“And that made me want to fucking burst.”

“So did you? Suck it?”

“Of course I did. I’d have sucked anything you put in front of me.”

At this, the former angel gave a hearty groan, and felt his erection throb in his hand.

Crowley continued, “I slurped at the shell and pulled the meat into my mouth. There was an explosion of flavors, bitter and salty, and I swallowed it. And I told you how mouth-wateringly good it tasted, and how satisfying it felt going down my throat. And you licked your lips at me like a whore and picked up another shell.”

"This fantasy, I have to admit, is very me," Aziraphale confessed, with a low, sensuous tinge to his voice.

"Indeed. I recycled a few times over the years when I needed to get off on thinking about you because I couldn’t bloody take it anymore…"

“Just tell me more.”

“In the fantasy I’m sucking oysters because you keep feeding them to me, and I’m still pumping my dick under the table, but you can clearly see my hand moving and there is no mystery about it. None at all. It was around then that I noticed juice from the oyster dripping down your arm, so grabbed it with my free hand and licked it off of your skin while you watched. I sucked at the last few drops, and wanked harder, while you gave me another oyster. Then another.”

“Did you fill up on oysters, Crowley?”

“You filled me up good, angel. And after a while… well, I could see that your dick was hard, mine was hard, there was juice and moans and sucking and wanking and deliciousness everywhere…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, pushed to a new burst of pleasure and want, with these last few words. 

“Finally you called me an infernal bastard and stripped off your toga, threw the plate to the floor, and sat down on the table. You spread your legs and played with your cock, and asked me to fuck you.”

“That sounds gorgeous.”

“It was. But I said no.”

“No?”

“At first. I said it wouldn’t be right.”

“Oh, what a gentle…demon.”

“I asked if you’d ever got fucked before, and you said no – you were untouched. I imagined a little pink flower between your bum cheeks, totally innocent, and I crumbled just a bit at the thought of sinking all of this hardness into it… inch by inch, and ruining it. Stretching it so it would never be the same, and then shooting a hot milky load inside… oh, it would have been so sweet. But I still said no… I didn’t want to contribute to your downfall.”

“Did I beg for it?”

Crowley chuckled. “Not with words. You threw all of the food off the table with a giant clang. Salty juices from the oysters spilled everywhere, as did the wine, and you laid down on your back on that messy, greasy, filthy table right in front of me, with your knees in the air, and you pumped your dick hard, angel, like you’d been deprived for years…”

“Which, of course, I had.”

Crowley now gave a moan himself. “I acted like I wanted to say no again, but your lovely, puckered hole was right there in front of me. It was so clean and so perfect, I had to have it. I leaned forward and licked it.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed with surprise.

“And you made that sound,” Crowley groaned. “Just like that.”

“Mm, I am indeed wondering how that would feel.”

“You know what I’m wondering?” Crowley asked.

“What?”

“What you’d have liked to happen next, if you had been in my head back then.”

"Do you mean, if this were my fantasy, as well as yours, where would it go next?"

"Yes, angel."

“Well, I think I would be desperate to advance to the point where you're impaling me with some urgency."

"Oh, indeed."

"So I would ask to see it."

“See my cock?”

“Mm-hm. If you’ve been hiding it under the tablecloth, I should think I’d like to know how much trouble I’m getting myself into.”

“I’d gladly stand up and show it to you.”

“I’d wince, in seeing that it would be a lot of trouble, indeed. So I would probably ask to feel your tongue penetrate me first, before you come ploughing through me with that cock,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, what with being so pristine and untouched and all, my pretty pink hole would be much too tight for it. So I’d need, as you said the other night, a bit of slippery.”

“Very nice, angel,” Crowley whispered, shuddering hearing Aziraphale say, ‘my pretty pink hole.’ If they’d been in the room together, that would have been the moment when it all fell apart.

“Oh, I can imagine how good that feels," Aziraphale said, rather breathlessly, stroking himself with renewed vigour.

“Mm… my tongue in your arse… and you know what? Back then, angel, I had a reptilian tongue that I could use at will.”

“Oh…”

“But you know, I’d be too eager to do it for too long. Eventually I’d spit on your hole and press my fingers inside.”

“And I’d feel my tight ring being stretched open, and that perfect spot being touched…” Aziraphale groaned at his own idea, and found that he had to slow his strokes, or risk ending this idyll too soon. 

“And you’d like me to move my fingers in and out?”

“Yes, and scissor them.”

“Of course, scissor them. And I’d add a third finger now… in and out, and in and out…gently, I suppose,” Crowley mused. Then, “But now, angel, I would want to finger-fuck you good. Hard, fast. Maybe even add a fourth finger? What d’you reckon? Can your pretty, pink, pristine hole take it?”

Aziraphale recommenced pumping with ardour, and Crowley could hear his breathing growing a bit ragged. “It can’t. But do it anyway.”

“I’ll spit on it more. Make it a bit easier.”

“Yes…” Aziraphale’s voice raised higher. “And I’d still be pumping my shaft – like I am now, harder now than ever – and I’d be so green, Crowley, I wouldn’t know how to stop.”

“That’s all right. Don’t stop.”

“Getting finger-fucked would feel so divine…”

“And you’d have never had anything in your arse before, yeah?”

“Never,” Aziraphale agreed, now breathless. Crowley could tell what was about to happen. “Never, ever. Before that day, I’d have been so innocent, so clean… but the filthy table, and filthy you, it’s… it’s so good… so good…”

“That’s right, angel. You’d have loved getting it fast and furious from four of my fingers, opening you up nice and wide so I can…”

“Oh, Crowley, I would love to wait for you to fuck me properly, but I can’t, I can’t…”

And Aziraphale gave a grunt while thick, milky gobs shot out of his cock, leaving absolutely no doubt in his lover’s mind as to what he’d done. His voice became ragged, and he swore, as more come poured out, and then oozed…

On the other end of the line, Crowley listened with fervour, relishing every indecent sound his lover made, and imagined the magnificent mess, in spite of himself. He avoided touching himself now, and it was bloody difficult. He groaned with the strain of it, and with the desire to grasp at anything he could.

He listened to Aziraphale's orgasm, and to his cool-down, those winded, desperate moments of dénouement, the cherry on the sticky, sweet parfait.

“All right?” he asked, after a minute, and Aziraphale’s breathing had slowed a bit. His voice was a tad shaky, itself.

“I want to know about the rest of that fantasy.”

“It’s your fantasy now, too.”

“Yes, it is. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, and we can…” Aziraphale said, preparing to stand.

“Actually, angel, look outside.”

Aziraphale gingerly tucked his still-somewhat-stiff phallus back into his trousers (which he had not managed to remove), and stumbled over to the nearest window. There, parked on the side street to the left of the bookshop, he could see the rear end of a black Bentley.

“Have you been there the whole time?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yep.”

Without a word, Aziraphale tossed the phone back onto its cradle, cutting off the call.

He threw open the door of the bookshop and ran to meet Crowley on the sidewalk. His tall, sinister lover met him halfway, and their bodies meshed like Velcro. Their arms clung hard to each other as their lips met, then opened, searching each other for solace and satisfaction.

They stood and kissed. And kissed. And kissed. Heads tilting, groans escaping, at least one unsatisfied erection insisting, passersby snickering…

But none of it mattered now. They had heat, they had their story, they had their lips, they had each other.

And most importantly, they had a sturdy oak table in the back of the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still having to practically sell my plasma and make sacrifices to the gods in order to get time to write during the quarantine period. Please let me know it wasn't all in vain! Comments = love!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	14. First Night... and Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After both of their first forays into phone sex, Aziraphale and Crowley rather crashed into each other outside the bookshop, very anxious for the next phase of the evening. And morning. These are those phases.
> 
> Hint: this chapter includes a very sturdy oak table, and a comforter on the bookshop floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley described in the previous chapter his very first fantasy about Aziraphale, which he rarely afterwards pulled out of storage because it reduced him to remorseful tears. Chapter 1 has more on this topic, as you may or may not recall.
> 
> I suppose the initialism "NSFW" seems like a cruel joke to some, so I'll just say, make sure you put your smallest "coworkers" to bed before reading this, and that your Zoom is turned off. :-) Enjoy!

Aziraphale grabbed his panting companion by the wrist, and pulled him through the door of the bookshop. The latter locked it behind him, then leaned breathlessly against it.

“So, about finishing that fantasy…” Crowley asked.

“Was any of it actually true?” Aziraphale asked.

“Every word.”

“You’ve really had that on your mind since Ancient Rome?”

“Yes,” Crowley insisted, stepping forward, then reaching out with his left hand to cradle one side of his lover’s face. He began to kiss the neck normally obscured by a starched collar and bowtie, and whispered, “That night we had oysters, I lay there like a snake on a rock, and played the whole scene five times. I came so hard, and so much, angel, if I’d been human, I’d have been dehydrated.”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale moaned, closing his eyes and rather leaning into Crowley’s hand, kissing it lightly, as a remarkably human tongue grazed across the side of his ear.  
“I called up that same scenario a few times after that,” Crowley confessed, curling his arm around Aziraphale’s back, pressing his erection into a fleshy hip. “But it always felt blasphemous, or like I had raped you.”

“That’s… ridiculous… Cr-Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, trying to concentrate on his words, but failing somewhat, as he was still distracted by the roving tongue.

“Is it? I used you for my own pleasure, without your permission. Without your knowledge.” 

A lick behind the ear.

“You know I’d have given it.”

“Would you? Think back,” Crowley’s lips now grazed across Aziraphale’s upturned chin, as the latter laid his head back and sighed. “Two thousand years ago – neither one of us had quite come to terms with any of it. ‘Pardon me, angel, but do you mind if I use a holy image for my fevered, furious masturbatory fantasy?’”

“If you’d been specific…”

“Specific? ’So, angel who blushes even using the word 'temptation,' may I conjure an image of your celestial body, an instrument of the Almighty, and fuck you on a table in my mind?’”

“Your point is well taken,” Aziraphale sighed, as the roving tongue made its way to the other ear. “But I wanted it too. On a table, or wherever else, Crowley, I just didn’t know it.”

A brief sucking of an earlobe.

“You didn’t know it. It was a violation of innocence… even if it was just in my own head and heart.”

Crowely pressed his lips and tongue against those of his partner now, who let it all in gladly. No innocence remained… at least not in this moment.

“Well, I think it could be said that I’ve given in to the fantasy now. Although I’m fresh out of oysters,” Aziraphale breathed, pulling away.

“I don’t give a fuck about oysters.”

Crowley then ripped Aziraphale’s tucked-in shirt free of the waistband, and began working on the buttons. Aziraphale began to move backwards slowly, grasping his companion’s black lapels, and Crowley could plainly see that he was heading for the back of the shop. He knew there was a round table there at the bottom of the stairs, intentionally hidden from view of anyone who happened to peep into the front doors, between the blinds and the door frame. The two of them had, over the past couple of centuries, sat there countless times and shared drinks, conversation, longing looks…

…now they were about to share something entirely different.

When the back of Aziraphale’s legs bumped up against the table, he kicked off his shoes and socks rather deftly, then went for the hook of his trousers. Crowley finished with the buttons and peeled the shirt off him. He stepped out of his trousers and underthings, and to his surprise, his cock was at half-mast again.

“What’s easier to clean – the table, or the tablecloth?” Crowley asked.

“The tablecloth is a seventeenth century brocade from Sèvres made by…”

Having heard all he needed to, Crowley grasped the cloth and pulled it down, taking two candelabras noisily with it. He draped it over a chair nearby, and all that was left was a bare oak table with four stout legs, that had, if memory served, come with the shop.

Remembering the fantasy, naked Aziraphale wasted no time sitting down upon the hard surface. He wrapped his hand around his own cock, and began to stroke absently, holding his partner’s penetrating brown eyes with his own. “Crowley, I’d so love for you to fuck me. Please? Can you do that for me?”

He couldn’t help but smile, and bat his eyelashes a bit.

Crowley’s head tilted back, and laughed, groaning with the lascivious delight of hearing those words. As usual, he began rubbing himself through his bulging trousers. “Oh, angel, do you mind if I don’t go through the whole refusal rigmarole?”

“Aw, what a rake you are. Can’t say no to my pretty pink hole. Not even when we both know you’re pretending.”

“Fuck!” Crowley hissed, his unmistakable signal for wanting to rut, here and now. He unzipped his trousers, and suddenly a very hard, oozing member was out in the open. Aziraphale stared at it hungrily, pulling a bit harder on his own, which was now nearly back to its full, rock-hard glory. 

Aziraphale lay back, pulled his feet up onto the table and stroked his shaft, just as in the fantasy. Crowley’s fingers went automatically to the ‘pretty pink hole’ between his bum cheeks, and began to press.

“Mm,” Aziraphale moaned. “Don’t be shy. Stretch me.”

“Have you got… I dunno, any aloe vera or coconut oil? Or even egg whites?”

“Now why the deuce would I have any of those things in a bookshop?” Aziraphale asked, amused.

“Right, then,” Crowley said. “In a pinch…”

He knelt, pressed the strong, thick legs back against his partner’s chest, and spat on the delicious-looking, puckered rosebud, just waiting to be pried open. Aziraphale gave a short expression of surprise, did not stop pumping himself. At least, not just yet. Crowley leaned forward and allowed his tongue to play lightly against the opening, whilst the formerly imperfect angel moaned, and cursed like a slut. He licked a few times, moaning throughout, then pressed his tongue in a bit harder, until he felt the tip begin to penetrate.

This was so goddamn hot…

“Oh, shit, I can’t take this,” Crowley said, standing up, now pumping his own dick in earnest. He realised what he was doing, and pulled his hands away, and took a deep breath to calm himself a bit. “Let’s get you loosened up to take a pounding, angel. The sooner the better.”

He spat one more time on that tight, puckered hole, and worked two fingers inside.

Aziraphale moaned hard, and let go of his cock, so that he could brace himself against the edges of the table.

Crowley plunged his fingers in, then out again, and then repeated, insistently, rhythmically penetrating, listening to his angel’s abandoned, disjointed language and loud breaths.  
He stopped to scissor his fingers, spreading that back passage even wider, making room for a third finger, which he added then. For good measure, he spat on the hole again, and continued to give a good, slippery fingerfucking. 

When he added the fourth finger, it was just to say he had, because he couldn’t take it anymore now…

He withdrew the fingers and spat on his hand, then smeared saliva all over his cock. He spread apart the perfect round bum cheeks, pressed forward the hard, hungry, mushroomed head, and it popped past the ring without any problem. 

“Mm, nice and loose,” he growled. “Aren’t you, angel?”

“I daresay not nearly loose enough,” Aziraphale mused, his head spinning with pleasure, and anticipation of more.

“Want me to wait?” Crowley asked him with a jutted chin, vindicated, knowing what the answer would be. “Because I could stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop!”

“Or, I could just be gentle. Judicious. Restrained. What do you say?” Crowley teased.

“Go ahead,” Aziraphale countered. “But I know you. And I don’t think you’ll be able to.”

Crowley smiled naughtily. “I don’t think so either,” he admitted, and with that, gave a hard, quick thrust, burying himself balls-deep, and making Aziraphale yelp.  
He wrapped one arm around each bent leg, and began to fuck.

Aziraphale’s eyes immediately began to roll back in his head, and his hand went back to pumping his shaft. “Oh… oh dear… oh m…, oh my… oh, oh…” he moaned breathlessly, absently, as his whole body was jostled. Words could hardly form, nor could thoughts. This was a new high for him, a new soaring, poignant, insistent, pounding, high.

For Crowley, this was it – the Rome fantasy, second only to getting off on watching his angel with food. This was the filthy, blasphemous scenario that had brought him to orgasm so many times, and to tears just as often. He feasted his eyes on the tableau – Aziraphale, beautiful Aziraphale, on his back, legs bent, wanking furiously, taking a hard fuck that made his eyes cross. And it was so worth the wait… the love they’d built, the sexual rapport that had developed, the heat they’d generated these past few millennia… he gritted his teeth and watched with vindication as pleasure washed over his lover’s face. Even as Aziraphale seemed to lose impetus to stroke himself off, this was a victory for Crowley.

“All right, angel?” he asked.

“Oh… oh… yes…” Aziraphale responded, as his body was jostled over and over again, and he occasionally winced.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No, don’t!”

“Are you sure? Don’t want you to break.”

“Don’t stop! I won’t break. It hurts, but… oh, it’s… it’s…”

“I know,” Crowley growled. “It’s fucking divine, isn’t it? Even with the pain. Especially with the pain, perhaps.”

“Mm-hm.”

Though, he slowed his thrusting, added more saliva to the proceedings, then began to go for hard and deep. He pressed back even more on Aziraphale’s legs, and bent himself forward slightly. He plunged his cock into that slippery hole as deep as it would go, with as much force as he could. Aziraphale let fly an expletive, one that made Crowley fear he’d lose his load right then.

He pulled back and lodged himself deep inside again with one mighty shove.

“What’s wrong, angel? Why aren’t you pulling on that big dick of yours? Not enough stimulation?”

“I can’t… I can’t… it’s too… oh…”

Crowley spat on his right hand once more, and switched its grip from Aziraphale’s knee to his suffering, purple-headed shaft. He tugged at it expertly, and continued to give the hard, deep assaults on his companion's arse. 

Push… another push, grunts, fiery sensations, temperature rising, orgasm imminent…

Thick white cream began to spurt out of Aziraphale’s dick a few seconds before he announced, “Oh Crowley, I’m coming… I’m coming all over… oh, it’s… oh…”

“Yes, you are,” Crowley hissed, as he pumped it. “And isn’t it luscious? Give me more… come on, angel…”

The rounded stomach and chest became bespeckled with small pools of fresh come, and it made Crowley crave release so badly… worse than possibly ever in his life.

“I’ve got to come too,” Crowley croaked, holding back carefully, but still fucking his partner good. “I want to fill up your insides and make you all mine.”

“Then do it. I’m yours. Make me feel it.”

“Will you feel it?”

“Yes!”

“You’re not too loopy?”

“No!”

Crowley gave a crackling cry that ripped through the air like a dull knife. It was the most gorgeous sound Aziraphale had ever heard, and he locked eyes with his unbelievable, sex-soaked lover. He then felt dramatic pulses in his rear chute as Crowley looked him in the eye and unloaded a big, hot gush of milky come, deep inside of him. Crowley gave a loud, throaty grunt, leaned his head back and continued to take his pleasure in Aziraphale’s arse. Warm, slippery jets seemed to fill the former angel everywhere, and his mouth went instinctively open to say something, or cry out, or simply in amazement, and his brow furrowed. 

“You like that feeling, don’t you?” Crowley asked him, teeth gritted, still shooting the last bits.

“I love it,” Aziraphale practically whined. 

“Mm, you love it.”

"Just this... this moment. Now. It's better than anything we've ever... oh... it's..."

Crowley seemed to finish then, wiped his brow. He took a pause, focused on his angel’s face, and asked, “This moment, eh?"

"Oh, yes."

"I've shot my load inside of you before. What made this different?"

“I could see your face. I could watch what happens to your features when you’re at the height of pleasure and release.”

“Ahhh, I see.”

“I felt possessed by you, and pinned-down by that virile gaze of yours. When you drill me with your eyes while you’re orgasming, I can feel the fire in your body, as well as the one in mine.”

"You've got a way with words, angel."

He took a step back, and when he did, his softening cock popped out, and some of his come leaked from Aziraphale’s backside, onto the table.

“Blimey, we are messy,” Crowley breathed.

“I still have a flat upstairs, that I used to keep fastidiously clean, and not always through magic,” Aziraphale said, allowing his partner to help him sit up.

"And?"

"There may be some cleaning agents."

“Okay. Don’t go anywhere. If you move, it’ll get worse.”

And then Crowley disappeared up the stairs momentarily.

_________________________________________________________________

For the first time ever, Crowley spent the night in the bookshop.

For the first time ever, Aziraphale spent the night on the bookshop floor.

After cleaning up, Crowley had stripped down to his stylish black Calvin Klein underpants, and they had spread out some bedclothes from upstairs, and lay it over the large round rug on the floor. They gazed up at the circular balcony above them, and enjoyed the interesting vista of books and painted stars that it afforded.

Well, the vista, and a bit of fine Pouilly Fuissé. It wasn’t particularly Crowley’s cup of tea, but sharing a mostly-naked drink with his angel made even white wine more exciting.

“Well, how did you enjoy phone sex?” Aziraphale asked, lying on his side, taking a sip.

“I liked it,” Crowley said lightly, lying on his back, hands behind his head. “How could I not?”

“For my part, I enjoyed it immensely. I suppose I'm a bit of logophile... words and language have always excited me. In various ways, of course."

“Although, I feel like it’s more of an hors d’oeuvre, rather than an entrée. One would only make a meal of it if one had no other choice. Like, a protracted separation, or a quarantine or something.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It was satisfying. But now you mention it, I was rather ridiculously glad to see you, after it was over.” He smiled. “I suppose it was a bit how I feel when I see the entrée about to be served, even when I’ve enjoyed the appetizer.”

Crowley chuckled at the food metaphor, which he himself, admittedly, had started.

“I’ll tell you one thing I liked about it,” Crowley said, glancing over at his now half-drunk companion.

“Yes?”

“It was a first for me, and it was with you.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Ah, yes. We may never get that chance again.”

“Well, never say never,” Crowley warned. “Six thousand years is a long time, but it’s not an eternity.”

“Very true.”

“Although, I just enjoy experiencing the newness of everything through you. And with you.”

“What a lovely thing to say, Crowley.”

______________________________________________________________

Aziraphale was awakened in the morning by the sound of someone trying the door of the bookshop. His heart pounded from being startled, but he decided then and there that he would not today rush to open the store.

He estimated the time at around eight a.m., because he knew how the sunlight behaved and interplayed with the anatomy of the bookshop, at all hours of the day, at all times of the year, blinds open, blinds closed, partially cloudy, sunny… barring rain. Two centuries of studying the morning, afternoon and evening light from a single vantage point on a little corner in Soho would do that. 

He also knew that the morning sun typically cast itself across the front doors for about forty-five minutes in such a way that made it nearly impossible to see through the slats between the window frames and the blinds. And that was now.

Crowley was awakened around then by the unexpected feeling of something hard and insistent digging into his lower back.

Warmth enveloped him, as he realised he was wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms, was being kissed lightly across the shoulders, and his imperfect angel had more than a bit of a morning-time erection.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” he said, softly.

“Morning,” came the barely-whispered answer. Then a hand reached around to check the state of Crowley’s cock. The touch brought the sleeping member to life.

“Something on your mind, angel?”

In lieu of an answer, a hand moved down and gripped Crowley’s balls, and squeezed. Not too hard, but hard enough to make his cock leap to attention.

“Nicely done,” Crowley moaned, now as aroused as his partner. 

“Why the surprise? You know I’m a quick learner.”

“You are that, you naughty thing.” He pulled his knees up to his chest momentarily in order to slide his Calvins off, then turned on his stomach. With the entire front of his body pressed to the comforter on the floor, he said, “Message received. Lots of saliva, angel.”

“You’re ready? Now? I mean, already? Are you sure? I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me…”

“Love, and morning have come over you. It’s perfectly normal.” Crowley rested his cheek on his forearms, and locked eyes with his lover.

“I feel like a powder keg,” Aziraphale said, with some surprise.

“Let me guess: it’s happened before, but you denied it and eventually it went away.”

“In a nutshell.”

“Well now you’ve got me. So use me.”

“Use you,” Aziraphale mused, settling into the idea, letting his eyes rove over the long, sinewy body.

He shifted behind Crowley, and the latter could feel soft hands on his bum. He expected to hear spitting, then feel his lover’s slicked-up morning wood slide into him straight away. But, to his surprise, he felt those very hands spread him open, then felt a probing tongue in just the right spot. He gave his favourite expletive, moaned hard, and spread his legs wide.

“Good?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ngk,” Crowley uttered, in lieu of a proper answer.

"Well, you taught me some wonderful things last night. I thought it would be a waste not to use them."

Aziraphale licked and teased at Crowley’s backdoor for a few minutes, then, to the former demon’s absolute shock, the former angel said, “You’ve got quite the pretty pink hole yourself, do you know that?”

“Ngk.”

This action continued for a few more minutes, with Crowley more or less speechless, more people outside trying the door, and Aziraphale oblivious. The shop owner was too busy lapping at and moaning into the slit between his companion’s bum cheeks, like a man starved, to notice a silly thing like potential customers.

After an eternity, he pulled away, Crowley heard him spit a couple of times, and something new was poking at his bum, rather insistently. Crowley relaxed himself, and felt a hard shaft sink in and fill him up with sparking, throbbing urgency. He heard a delicious moan, and felt the weight of Aziraphale’s body on top of him. The angelic hands dug into the bedspread on either side of Crowley’s head, and thrusting began.

As Crowley had always known, Aziraphale’s precious demeanour belied a powerful, strong body, and as such, he felt himself being jostled back and forth rather forcefully. He felt hot breath on his back and neck. And most poignant of all, he felt his dick pressed between his body and the bedspread, and the motion built friction, pressure…

“Shit, angel, you’re going to make me cream all over your fussy, clean blanket,” he moaned. Then quite quickly, he felt his body give way, orgasm took him, and he knew he had sullied Aziraphale’s bedspread. As he got rhythmically fucked, he felt corresponding waves of sizzling pleasure leave his body, and could feel the slick liquid building up underneath his stomach. “Oh… coming, angel! Oh, fuck, it feels fantastic!”

“You feel fantastic,” Aziraphale echoed, then pressed his upper body against Crowley’s back. He kissed the sinewy shoulder and whispered, “You feel fantastic, and I love you. So much.”

Crowley closed his eyes, and sighed. He was pressed to the floor by the only man, woman, angel, or demon he had ever loved. His orgasm had already come and gone, and a salty, slick pool was already guaranteeing another trip to the dry cleaner. He felt rather limp himself, and yet his lover’s cock continued to drive back and forth inside of his arse, hard, and then gently, then hard again, varying the strokes like a pro. 

This was an undeniably good fuck, and it was meant as a release for Aziraphale’s morning erection. But also, this was love. This was pure. This was real.

Aziraphale’s lips grazed, groaning, hungrily over the back of his neck, and one of his hands now grasped Crowley’s at shoulder level. 

“You are exquisite,” Aziraphale whispered, almost mindlessly. “You’re perfect… so warm… and you make me WANT.”

Their hands grasped harder as Aziraphale looked for leverage, and varied his strokes. He licked the earlobe, he kissed the shoulder, he whispered “I love you,” over and over.

Crowley took a deep breath, and simply enjoyed being made love to. Eventually, Aziraphale’s lust and rhythm became a throbbing flood of liquid warmth filling Crowley’s insides, and fabulous groans filling his ears. 

He’d been filled like this before, he’d heard groans in his ears before. He’d been pressed to the floor and penetrated. He’d even been fucked once by Aziraphale himself, but still for Crowley, this morning was another first, and he felt total ecstasy on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things that are not easy: 1) quarantine, and 2) commenting on smut.
> 
> But do it anyway, eh? It's better for all of us! ;-)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	15. Herding Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley finally meet up in the park with Anathema and Newt, to learn about how humans keep fit. A bit of mild, childish chaos ensues!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first third of the chapter has nothing to do with fitness - it is setting the stage for a later creature comfort (I HAVE actually outlined the story - I'm not just meandering from fluff to smut and back again). 
> 
> Regarding the last two thirds: Anathema Device is clearly fit, but she's not a fanatic, and she's not a trainer. And by the way, neither am I! I'm working from experiences I've had with my own trainer, and I'm estimating what each character might be able to do, based on, again, my own experiences. Just read it, smile, and be kind!
> 
> So, no smut. The intent here is humor. What would happen if someone like Anathema tried to teach Newt, plus two guys who are literally older than Methuselah, but are weirdly clueless about the human body? Do YOU think it would go absolutely smoothly? 'Cause I don't. :-) I hope it makes you laugh! Enjoy.

It was a Friday in London. 

"Why are we going this direction?" asked Aziraphale.

"Anathema texted to ask if we could just use Hyde Park, rather than someone off the beaten path," replied Crowley.

“Well, are you sure we have to walk?” the former whined.

“What is your problem? It’s less than a mile!” Crowley whined back, utterly tired of this genre of commentary from his companion.

“I know, but…”

“I don’t remember you doing this much caterwauling back in the days when walking was the only game in town.” Crowley shook his head in exasperation, as the two of them continued to make their way along an old brick wall topped with spikes and wires deterring any intruders. They were on Grosvenor Place, walking along the back side of the grounds of Buckingham Palace, toward Hyde Park, in order to meet up with Anathema Device. And presumably, also Newton Pulsifer.

“It’s not the walking, per se, that bothers me, Crowley, it’s…”

“It would be quite tragically ironic if we drove the less-than-a-mile, to rendezvous with someone who’s going to help us learn about exercise and conditioning. You know it takes forever for humans to find parking in Central London – by the time we did that, we’d miss our appointment and end up parking further away than the flat anyhow.”

“All right, all right, it’s just…” Aziraphale sighed. “I feel ridiculous.”

Crowley sighed heavily, and stopped dead on the sidewalk and threw his head back. “Ugh, how many times, angel?”

Aziraphale blew a few steps past him then stopped, himself.

He turned toward Crowley and looked down at his attire. “Look at me!”

“I am looking at you!” Crowley said, ripping his favourite pair of dark glasses off his face. “You look fine! Lovely! Normal!”

Aziraphale looked nervously at people walking past. None of them seemed to notice the snippety couple stopped on the pavement.

“It doesn’t feel normal.”

“Oh, we so don’t have time for this,” Crowley groaned. “In the first place, angel, in the last couple of months, you’ve done a number of things that were previously outside of your comfort zone, and didn’t feel quite normal. I’d have thought that THIS would rate quite a few orders of magnitude less disquieting than, say, spending the night naked with me, on the floor of your bookshop. Or orgasmically eating ravioli with a glass plug in your arse.”

“Lower your voice!”

“In the second place, look around. Not only is no-one looking at you dressed like that, but fewer people are looking at you than are usually looking at you! And do you know why? Because half the people on the street, as you may notice, are wearing something similar. None of the people on the street are wearing Victorian coattails, a velveteen waistcoat and fucking bowtie!”

“I thought you liked my usual attire," said the former angel, wishing he had a waistcoat whose hem he could adjust haughtily.

“I do. On you. But I won’t pretend it hasn't been a little weird for the past century or so,” Crowley said, shrugging, and beginning to walk again.

In anticipation of today’s events, Crowley had learned how to use the washer/dryer in his flat, and made sure that the clothes they’d worn for yoga were clean. Aziraphale had, of course, worn this ivory tee-shirt and tan velour warm-up trousers before, but always with fussy layers over it, until he was well and truly inside the yoga studio. Today, he had attempted the usual layering, but Crowley had reminded him that there would be no cubby holes in the park where they could stash their stuff, so they hand to go hands-free, and unencumbered. Crowley had even opted to leave his phone behind.

“I know that my style of dress is a bit out-of-date…”

“Just a bit, yeah.”

“But those suits were all hand-made at Savile Row by the best tailor I’ve ever seen, and well, he’s gone now, so I can’t replace them. Never exactly.”

“Of course he’s gone now,” Crowley muttered. “He was probably born in 1807.”

“1826, actually, but your point stands,” Aziraphale conceded. “Those clothes were chic back then, and, well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with them now. They’re mine, and they were carefully chosen. In fact, I choose each accessory carefully every day.”

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “But you can’t exercise in them.”

“I’m aware. But they’re beautiful to me, and they are comfortable to me. Dressing for the twenty-first century feels bizarre – I can’t help it.”

“All right, angel, I’m sorry,” Crowley said, taking his Aziraphale's hand. “I didn’t mean it when I said no-one wears a fucking bowtie. I meant… just, you know… bowtie. No-one on the street is wearing a bowtie. And see, here’s my smile.”

Aziraphale chuckled, looking at Crowley’s stupid grin. “All right, you’re forgiven.”

“Ah, music to my ears!” They walked a few more steps, and then Crowley asked, “So am I to understand that clothes are something of a creature comfort to you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered. “I do have my own sort of sartorial passion, archaic though it may be. Being well-dressed has been needless in my life as an angel, but it feels good.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I find myself taken with certain types of fabrics, certain cuts, certain standards. The same is true of you, and don't say it's not.”

“Yeah, fair dues. I’m no more pleased than you are to be dressed like this, honestly,” Crowley sighed, looking down at his loose black t-shirt and loose black trousers with two white stripes up the side seams. “And I’m a totally different animal from you, of course, in my affinity for clothing and my reasons for it, but… yes, I think we’ve found another creature comfort in common. Though, it’s not really a surprise.”

“But these shoes…” Aziraphale complained, looking down at his very first pair of trainers. Crowley had purchased them the previous day, realising that neither of them owned a pair, and would need them for jogging in the park, if that, indeed, was what Anathema had in mind.

“Tut tut,” Crowley scolded. “Just go with it. Find your Zen, Zira. You’re human now, you’ve got to make concessions. I don’t like them either, I feel and look like I’ve got big rubber erasers on my feet, but it’s what people wear for exercise.”

They walked hand-in-hand through Apsley Gate and that’s when they spied Anathema and Newt, standing across the street, just where the pavement curved round the southeast corner (such as it was) of Hyde Park. They unlocked hands to walk across Carriage Drive, and Anathema came at them both with a very American gusto.

“Oh my God, you guys!” she cried out, and threw one arm around Aziraphale’s neck and the other around Crowley’s. “Last time we saw you, we thought it would be… the last time we saw you!” They could distinctly hear her voice break, and hugged her back, as much as they could, with the awkward, half-bent-over position she’d put them in.

“You’ve been talking to us,” Crowley offered. “You know we’re alive. A bit too alive, some might say?”

“I know, I know, but SEEING you is different! So glad you’re here! So, so glad.” And then she wept openly.

Newt was standing by, nervously smiling and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale decided to make the effort there. “Hello, Newton,” he said, offering a hand to shake, whilst Anathema’s emotion kept him in a virtual headlock. “Nice to see you.”

The two shook hands awkwardly, and then Crowley offered his hand as well. “Handshake? Or stand in line for a hug?”

Newt gratefully shook Crowley’s hand and said, “I’m more of a handshake guy. Good to see you.”

Finally, Anathema let go, dabbed at her eyes with the tail of her sweatshirt, and apologised.

“I have to say, Anathema, I’ve never seen you look less witch-like,” Crowley said, looking her over. Her thin grey sweatshirt hung carelessly off one shoulder, which revealed a blue athletic tank-top underneath. She wore a pair of knee-length leggings and trainers that looked expensive, and well-loved. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she wore a pair of perfectly round sunglasses, a bit like Crowley’s. She wore her athletic gear a Hell of a lot more comfortably than any of the three men currently standing by.

“A witch has gotta watch her figure,” she shrugged. With that, she turned and picked up a duffel bag and began to walk into the park. “This way, guys.”

They followed a nearby walkway until there was a break in the knee-high fence separating it from most of the green, which opened onto a dirt path. She veered off to the left of the path and dumped her duffel on the ground next to a large tree. She explained that she had been trying to get Newt to work out with her so she’d have a partner, but thus far, he’d not been amenable. He had agreed after she had informed him that she’d be helping out two other beginners.

She began by showing them some stretches, and warming up their muscles. In Aziraphale’s mind, this felt very familiar – much like the first few minutes of a yoga class.

“So, I usually do a forty-five minute workout,” she told them, whilst they were all lunging forward, stretching their hamstrings. “Two minutes of stretching at the beginning, three minute warm-up, and five minutes of cooldown and stretching at the end. In the intervening thirty-five minutes, one of the things I do is what I call the Three-Thirty workout. I decided on three-thirty because that’s my birthday. March 30.”

“Here, we would say thirty-three,” Newt pointed out.

“I know, but thirty-three just sounds like a number that comes between thirty-two and thirty-four, or the sum of twenty-one and twelve, and for the purposes of this workout, thirty-three makes no sense. So, we’re going to do it the Yankee way.”

“Okay,” he said, clamming up quickly.

“Now, here are the rules. Number one, if it hurts, stop. Now, hurting is different from burning.”

“How?” asked Crowley, a bit incredulously. “Burns hurt.”

"With muscles and bones, there is a difference. If you feel a sharp pain, or a cramp, or something feels unnatural…”

“What’s a cramp?” asked Aziraphale.

She stood up straight and put both hands at her sides. “Right. You don’t know what a cramp is. Okay, um, it feels like a muscle is being tied in a knot.”

“Tied in a knot? That’s a thing?” Crowley asked.

“It’s not literally being tied in a knot… it’s a spasm or something. You can combat it with hydration.”

“Why are so many things down to hydration?” Aziraphale wondered.

"That's a good question," said Crowley. "Design flaw in the human animal, if you ask me."

"You know, I read this book called, 'Your Body's Many Cries For Water..." Newt began.

“Guys, I don't know, okay? I'm not a doctor. You wanted me to show you my workout, so I’m going to do that. All this preliminary stuff is just so you don’t accidentally do yourselves some damage because you’re completely dense about the human body, all right?”

Crowley held up both hands, disarmed. “Fine, fine. Sorry. Please continue.”

“So, bottom line: if there’s pain, then stop. I’ve looked online and learned about modifications that we can try, while we work up to the harder stuff, if need be. Comprende?”

The guys all nodded.

“Number two, if you feel like you’re going to pass out, sit down.”

“What does that feel like?” Aziraphale asked.

“Er, yeah…,” Crowley interjected. “Neither of us has ever passed out before.”

“Jesus, no wonder you need me,” she muttered. Then, she sighed. “Do you know what nausea feels like?”

“We’ve had hangovers,” Crowley replied.

“Okay, sure, it’s like that, only more insidious. Less violent. Usually brought on, again, by dehydration or lack of oxygen to the brain, or both.”

“Oh dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” she said. “At least it’s usually coupled with exhaustion, so most of the time, it causes you to slow down naturally and you don’t vomit.”

“Not vomiting is always good news,” Newt commented.

“Yeah, what’s that like?” Crowley said.

“You’ve never vomited?”

“No, never.”

“It’s extremely unpleasant. Your entire torso contracts and acid fills your mouth, along with what you’ve eaten, and for some reason, you then start making horrible, horrible noises…”

“Newt! Stop it!” Anathema snapped.

“I did ask,” Crowley reminded her.

“Well, stop it!”

“We’re sorry, Anathema,” Aziraphale said. “We’re very, very green. We know lots about humanity, but as you know, some of the messier aspects…”

“Okay, fine,” Anathema sighed. “Feeling faint. It’s nausea, shortness of breath, then maybe your head spins like you’re drunk, and if you’re really lucky, you’ll start seeing black spots.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Delightful.”

“Exactly, so… that brings me to rule number three, which is, don’t push so hard that you feel like you’re going to barf. Today is all about seeing what you can do, and not about going from zero to sixty in eight seconds, or outdoing each other, all right gentlemen?”

“No problem here,” Newt said, a little fear creeping into his voice. “I don’t need to outdo anyone. Never outdone anyone in my life."

“Rule number four,” she continued. “Circling back to hydration: sip on water the entire time. Drink lots.”

“But…” Aziraphale interjected, shyly.

“But what?” she asked.”

“But we’re in a park.” 

"Aziraphale is a little bit fixated on the number of times per day humans must visit the loo," Crowley whispered loudly. "Please forgive him."

"I'm sorry, I just think it's excessive," Aziraphale told him.

“There are bathrooms over there in that kiosk, all right? They’re not the cleanest, but it’s what we’ve got. It’s far more important to stay hydrated. I sort of had a feeling you guys might forget, so I took the liberty.” She stopped her stretch, and reached into her duffel, producing four bottled waters, and laid them on the ground. “Now let’s do a gentle warmup.”

Across the path, there was a patch of land about the size of half a city block. There were six trees in the middle of the patch, more or less arranged in a circle, and Anathema began walking briskly around the outside of the circle, motioning for the men to follow. After three minutes, she stopped back at the original tree, and called for everyone to gather.

“It’s going to get harder than that, right?” Newt asked.

“Yes, sweetie,” she replied. “A lot harder.”

“Damn.”

“Now guys, again, this is what I do for my workout – this is not the best for beginners. I’m just showing you, okay? I’m experienced, but I’m not a trainer, so, you know, don’t get your hopes too high. And don’t have a heart attack because I have zero emergency training.”

“How will we know?” Crowley asked.

Anathema seemed to claw at the air, and supplicate to the sky. She let out a cry of frustration. "You guys!"

“Well, sorry!” Crowley whined. “Never had one before!”

“It’s highly unlikely that it’ll come to that. Although, I don’t know… how were your bodies made? Never mind, don’t answer that,” Anathema answered, increasingly irritated. “Look, Crowley, as I understand it, you’ll feel a shooting pain up and down your left arm, and you’ll feel shortness of breath. Okay?”

“You know, there’s still a part of me that thinks, ‘oh, don’t worry, Crowley or I can fix a heart attack, lickety-split!’ and then I remember,” Aziraphale announced, then sighed.

“Yes, thank you, Aziraphale, all the more reason not to try to die here and now,” she said. “Can we move on now?”

The men all sheepishly agreed, yes, they could move on.

“Thank you. So, I operate on the idea that there are four basic types of exercise: cardio, core, arms, legs. Arms also includes shoulders and pectorals, legs also includes glutes. This is way oversimplifying things, but it’s one of the things that helps me to get a full-body workout, and makes it easy to decide what sorts of exercises to do. So I invented the Three-Thirty. It works as follows: you run for three minutes – that’s your cardio. Then you do three sets of exercises, thirty of each. Thirty core, thirty arms, thirty legs.”

“Holy shit,” Newt commented.

She ignored him. “We’re going to run around the trees for three minutes. When that time is up, I’ll let you know. You’re going to come back here, to this tree, and try to do thirty sit-ups, thirty push-ups and thirty squats. Or, as many as you can. Then we’ll run again, and we can choose three new exercises in those categories. Then we’ll run again, and choose three new… you get the idea. Repeat until thirty-five minutes has passed, and then it will be time to cool down.”

“I already know I can’t do thirty sit-ups,” Newt told her. “And running for three straight minutes might be interesting as well.”

“Okay, we can adjust.”

“One question," Aziraphale said.

"Yes?"

"What is a sit-up?” he asked. He asked it with a vocal inflection that put the emphasis on both syllables of ‘sit-up’, and clipped them both cleanly, as though he’d never spoken the phrase before.

Anathema blinked at him, and sighed. “Right – new to everything.” She sat down on the grass and demonstrated. “Hands behind your head, feet flat on the ground, sit all the way up, then lie all the way down. Thirty times. If you can. Try it. Just once or twice now.”

All three guys tried it. All three guys were somewhat surprised to find that their feet wanted to naturally pull up off the ground when they tried to sit up, and were dismayed when she ordered them to keep the soles of their shoes glued to the grass.

“How are we supposed to do that?” Newt whimpered.

“By using the strength in your stomach muscles.”

“I don’t have any strength in my stomach muscles!”

“Which is why we’re here,” Anathema reminded him.

“Okay, off to a great start,” Crowley said sarcastically, lying on his back and throwing his arms up over his head in exasperation. “So, what the fuck is a push-up? An old-fashioned torture method?”

“No, of course not, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded. “You’d know if it were.”

Crowley laughed. “Yeah, probably. I’m relieved. I don’t even want to tell you what I was picturing as a ‘push-up,’ when discussing forms of torture through the ages.”

“Oh, good grief,” Aziraphale groaned, like an appalled old lady.

Newt giggled like an adolescent.

“Here!” Anathema interrupted. She turned over and demonstrated a push-up. “Toes and palms on the ground, lower yourself down, then back up, working your biceps and shoulder muscles. If you need to, you can rest your knees on the ground, but make sure your butt stays low. Go ahead and do one or two.”

The men turned over and mimicked her, without too much difficulty. Of course, they only did two for now.

“Okay, you know what?” Crowley muttered. “I feel like this one plays right into my wheelhouse. I’m just saying.”

“Crowley, stop it!” Aziraphale hissed.

“Yes, please stop,” Anathema echoed. “You’re acting like a high school jock.”

“They have horse racing in American high schools?” Aziraphale asked, with no irony whatsoever, setting his knees down, and sitting up.

“What?” she asked. 

“And what are squats?” asked Newt.

She stood up, and again, demonstrated. “Keep your weight on your heels, and your chest forward. If you do it right, you should feel the burn in the sides and backs of your thighs. Try it out.”

The men did a few squats, and she reminded them not to strain their calves. “Don’t put weight on the balls of your feet.”

“Feet have...” Newt began

“Don’t you dare,” she cut across the childish question. “Just concentrate on your heels.”

“How do you just concentrate on…” Crowley muttered, trying it. “I don’t get it.”

“Think about your heels. You are your heels. You want to receive the weight of your body…” Aziraphale offered, trying some techniques and verbiage from yoga.

“Angel, honestly, I love you, but… don’t. Just… no.”

“Pretend you’re about to sit down in a chair, but you’re losing your balance… and the chair’s been removed,” Anathema tried.

Crowley stood up straight. “Okay, now you’re just taking the Mickey. I was a demon before a month ago, not a toddler.”

“Do you want my help or not?” she asked. “Try it one more time.”

He bent his knees and squatted, and she gently pushed him backwards. 

“Whoa!” he cried out, as he stopped himself falling, and stood back up. “I get it!”

“Fantastic. Ready to run?” she asked. She did not wait for them to respond, she simply began running around the outside of the little grove of six trees.  
Anathema was able to run the circle four times in three minutes.

Crowley did it two and a half times.

Aziraphale and Newt almost twice. And it was hard for them.

They all convened near the first tree, took a few sips of water, and attempted sit-ups. Anathema did hers quickly, and Aziraphale finished sooner than anyone anticipated. Crowley came up just behind, and Newt struggled quite a bit. Anathema crouched and held down Newt’s feet. She encouraged him to stop at seventeen when he began cursing the day he’d been born, but he refused to quit.

The men found push-ups easier, in general. Aziraphale, again, was the first of the three to complete thirty, with Crowley not too far behind. Newt did not complete thirty, but then again, he also refused to rest his knees on the ground, as suggested.

Then they did squats. They all did thirty. Crowley complained a little. Newt complained a lot. Aziraphale had no complaints, and resisted the urge to cheer-lead for his partner… he had an idea it would not go over well.

Another three-minute run covered about the same amount of ground as before, but subsequent runs became walks, then slogs, and then complain-fests. Crowley carried on running longer than the other two men, but that didn’t stop him from cursing colourfully, and pointing out that he had known it would be bloody awful jogging in the park.

And to show them the possibilities, Anathema had them do a variety of exercises in the categories, in sets of thirty (which became twenty, then fifteen, then ten, and then it became Newt stretched out like a Starfish on the grass). Aziraphale was very interested in the variations, the targeted muscle groups, and the possibility of combining exercises to make a fun, efficient, full-bodied workout.

“Wow. You’re a geek about even this,” Crowley observed, after the workout was over, and they were debriefing.

Aziraphale looked at him with annoyance. “You’re going to immediately start finding reasons not to do it, aren’t you?”

Crowley sniffed, "The temptation to shirk will be great."

“Erm, can I sign up for that particular temptation, too?” asked Newt, from his supine position on the grass.

______________________________________________________________________

In the end, what the erstwhile supernatural entities learned was that while this wasn’t exactly fun, it was engaging, and would be, in the end, doable. Probably. If temptation could be avoided, and discipline became a thing.

“Ugh, I hate that word,” Crowley whined. “Fucking discipline.”

They also learned that while Crowley had stamina, Aziraphale had strength. Aziraphale himself was surprised by this.

“I’m not,” Crowley told him, with an eyebrow flutter.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“And guys? Don’t push too hard. Based on what I’ve seen, Three-Thirty might be a bit much,” Anathema counselled. “Maybe start with a Two-Ten, or Two-Fifteen, work your way up.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Since I need to work on stamina, maybe I could do Three-Fifteen, and Crowley could work on strength by doing Two-Thirty.”

“Why wouldn’t we play to our strengths?” Crowley asked him.

“To better ourselves, of course. Maybe if we work together, we can bridge the gap between us.”

Crowley smirked. “Well, we’ve done it before, I don’t see why we can’t do it again.”

“Er, guys?” Newt interrupted, sitting up at last. “I’m famished. Fancy some brunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did it make you laugh? Roll your eyes? Wish for more smut? Let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading... hope you are all staying safe out there!


	16. What the Hell Does Concupiscent Mean?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A truly fabulous human foursome have a post-workout brunch together (probably undoing all of their hard work, but that's part of being human). 
> 
> Anathema and Newt share some good news, and express a need that will lead their ineffable friends to try and help. And in the process, Aziraphale learns a little something new about Crowley, and one of his creature comforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! If you have not already done so, please check out the "official" fanfiction written by Neil Gaiman, "Good Omens: Lockdown," on YouTube! It is fantastic! Adorbs beyond adorbs! My favorite part is when Crowley's affinity for watching Aziraphale eat rich foods is actually VOICED, and I also really enjoy Aziraphale's stutter in response! I squeed. A lot!
> 
> Anyway, back to MY story...
> 
> We are still "between smut" at this time, but obviously, we're always still headed back in that direction, in the not-too-distant future. I hope this chapter makes you smile, and anticipate what's to come!

Aziraphale had been reluctant to go anywhere else dressed as he was, but the appeal of a fine lunch won out. The four of them walked over to Maggie Jones’s, a rustic eatery about a block from the park, recommended by Anathema.

Once inside, an informally dressed man showed the quartet to a booth, leaving the menus on the table.

Anathema said, “Newt and I usually prefer to sit across from one another. How about you guys?"

“Erm, if you don’t mind, I think Crowley and I perhaps shouldn’t face each other during a meal,” Aziraphale requested.

“At least not in mixed company,” Crowley whispered, under his breath.

“Why?” Newt asked, nonplussed.

“Sweetie, it doesn’t matter why,” Anathema told him. “Of course we don’t mind sitting side by side.”

She slid into the booth first, and Crowley took a spot across from her. Newt and Aziraphale followed suit, and the four of them opened their menus. 

“Well, Book Girl,” Crowley said, looking the menu over with basic indifference. “Anything you’d recommend?”

“Nothing specific, but I would suggest a high-protein lunch,” Anathema answered. “You will be less likely to be sore tomorrow. And if I were you, I would down a few Ibuprofen as soon as you get home.”

“Do we have that?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yeah,” Crowley answered. “From post-yoga trauma.”

Aziraphale oohed and aahed over the delightfully rich selections that purported to be farmhouse-style, but were actually quite gourmet. Maggie Jones’s was conceptually a bit like Cédric’s Tonsorium – a carefully-crafted brash exterior masked a product that appealed to finely-tuned sensibilities. The décor was rustic, wooden, with lots of baskets, ironworks and dried flowers. The menu sported things like Guinea Fowl in white wine sauce, and angus steaks served with béarnaise. 

Once they ordered, Aziraphale chirped, “Oh, now, this place is delightful! How did you learn about it, Anathema?”

“Well, we haven’t told you guys yet, but we found a flat in London!” she replied with excitement.

“Wonderful! Congratulations!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“Thanks,” she said, grabbing Newt’s hand. “And it’s right down the street from here. We stopped here for lunch on the day we signed the papers.”

Crowley smiled. “Kensington. Very posh."

“Yeah, well, we found a place that’s sort of rustic like this, but with all updated kitchen and bathrooms and whatnot – we fell in love.”

“We did?” Crowley asked, looking askance at Anathema's partner.

“Oh, I’m not picky,” Newt replied, happily.

“And so, Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell will move into Jasmine Cottage?” asked Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” Newt reported. “They’ve been mostly in her flat since, you know… that Sunday after. You should see them - they’re kind of adorable.”

“She’s still calling him ‘Mr. S.,’” Anathema chuckled. “And he calls her ‘Jezebel.’”

“At least he quit calling her ‘Harlot,’” from Newt. “Or ‘The Whore of Babylon.’”

“And Shadwell… does even have a first name?” she wondered.

All three of the men, two of whom had known Shadwell for at least a half-century, looked at each other and shrugged.

“I reckon he must have had, at some point,” Aziraphale said, with a bit of a confused look on his face.

“Anyway, their intent all along has been to get out of the city, maybe a bungalow or something,” Newt continued.

“And, Jasmine’s not much of a bungalow,” said Anathema. “But that’s not the point. Right sweetie?”

“Right.” Then, Newt’s face screwed up into a look of disgust. “I have no idea how they will pack up his flat. I swear, there’s a layer of dust in there you could plant geraniums in, plus he’s been packratting newspapers since Macmillan. There are at least a dozen open cans of spoiled condensed milk in his fridge. And the smell... they’ll just have to torch the place and rebuild.”

“Yep. Moving house is a huge hassle even under the best of circumstances,” Anathema sighed. “We’ve got some work cut out for us. I’ve still got to ship in most of my stuff from the States – my mom is resisting sending it to me – and on top of everything else, Dick Turpin died."

Aziraphale frowned. “Dick Turpin? I’m sorry to hear that. I know he was not the best of men, but it’s always a shame to hear of genius wasted, particularly when there was a path not taken.”

“Aziraphale, Dick Turpin died back in the powered-wig era,” Crowley said, flatly. “He was hanged as a horse thief! I should know. I was headed out to York to tempt him into a sheep caper, only to find he’d already been executed.”

“Oh, sorry. Sometimes it’s hard for us – well, me – to be aware of the passage of time,” Aziraphale explained. “I suppose that’s begun to change already. Actually, my dear, I was wondering what the highwayman had to do with the two of you.”

“Dick Turpin was what I called my car,” Newt confessed. “I was sorry to see him go, but to be honest, he was a lemon from the very start.”

“Did Dick Turpin hold up traffic everywhere?” Aziraphale asked, with barely-contained glee.

“Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Newt responded a bit too loudly. The two of them cackled with the satisfaction of the joke, while Anathema and Crowley watched, their eyes brimming with tedium.

“He shouldn’t be encouraging this,” Anathema said to Crowley, as their partners took a dive into the mirth only a stupid pun can bring to guys like Newt and Aziraphale.

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “I’ll talk to him later.”

When Aziraphale realised the effect they were having on Anathema and Crowley, he stopped laughing (though suppressed the last few giggles), cleared his throat and said, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that Mr. Turpin has taken a sand kip.”

“A dirt nap, Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered.

Newt pulled his guffaws under control as well, and said, “Well, we’ve been okay so far because we’ve been taking the train back and forth between London and Tadfield.”

“Yeah, but genius here took a job in Canvey, which doesn’t have a train station,” Anathema added.

“It doesn’t?” Aziraphale asked.

“Apparently not,” Newt answered. “Any trip by train requires a transfer to a bus. From London, it’s an hour and a half. A drive, however, can be shaved to just under an hour, so we’re in the market for a car.”

“A sensible person would find a job in London, but no-one asked me my opinion,” Anathema told their friends, with a tightly-clipped, sarcastic smile.

“I can’t turn down this job, darling, Shadwell got it for me,” Newt protested.

“And you said it yourself, he’s a pillar of upstanding sanity that we definitely want influencing our lives as much as possible!”

“I am not having this discussion again!”

Anathema rolled her eyes, and said, “Anyway, I suppose it might be prudent to try and find a car before we move, so that we have something to shlep our stuff. I mean, we’ll use a moving van of course, but there will be the last-minute things that we bring ourselves. Lugging it onto the train might be awkward.”

“So, you know,” Newt shrugged. “If you hear of anything… I’ve only got about a thousand pounds to work with, though.”

“I told you, sweetie, I’m going to help you with this,” Anathema said.

“I don’t want you to help me.”

“I’m not going to let you waste your money on another tuna can with wheels.”

Newt sighed. “I don’t need anything fancy, Anathema. I’m fine with anything that runs, frankly.”

“’Anything that runs’ might not be safe,” she argued.

“Are you just afraid that our posh new neighbours will judge us if I park a used Nissan in a stupid colour in front of the flat?” he asked, with a sideways smile.

“A little,” she admitted. Then her voice rose. “But mostly it’s just… you need a reliable motor vehicle. You deserve something nice. And I deserve the chance to help you.”

"I know your family are well-off, but I'm not the sort of person who accepts charity."

She tutted in exasperation. “It’s not charity, it’s me reaching out, because I want you to be safe and happy, because I care about you, you ass!”

At that, she sat back and pouted.

Newt stared at her in silence, utterly stymied as to what to do. He’d never been one for public scenes…

After a few beats, Crowley said, “Er, kids, far be it from me to give anyone relationship advice, but, erm… Newt, it seems like your partner just wants to give you a gift.”

“Look, I understand your trepidation. Gifts can be a way to tip the scales of power in a relationship,” Anathema said, quickly, grudgingly. “They can be an unwritten, unspoken social contract that could, in the right circumstances, obligate you to another person, and give them tacit control over you, and you and your emotions.”

“They can?” Newt asked.

“Yeah."

"Well, shit," Newt said. "Way to convince me!"

"But that’s not what this is,” she insisted, rather childishly.

Crowley asked him, “If she showed up with a package tied with a red bow, and handed it to you with a smile, would you give her a hard ‘no’?”

Newt looked at Anathema. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Well, think of it that way,” she told him. “What’s so hard about accepting something nice from me?”

“I can’t give you anything in return.”

She chuckled. “It’s a gift! You aren’t supposed to! Besides, you give me plenty.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” she responded, grudgingly. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Oh. Oh!” Newt said, blushing.

“No, sweetie, I mean, like, companionship. Understanding. Acceptance. You are someone intelligent, and gentle, and open-minded, and nice, and selfless, and adorable, that I can come home to. Okay? I’ve never had that before.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling now. “Me neither. All of those things. They’re true for me to. I mean of you. And I’ve never had that either.”

Aziraphale discreetly reached over and squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley squeezed back. But neither of them changed the expression their face, nor moved their eyes toward one another.

“So you get it?” Anathema asked.

“I get it,” Newt replied.

There was a long silence, and Crowley asked, almost whispered, “And you’ll let her help you buy a car?”

“Yes,” said Newt. “But not like a sports car or anything – that’s just not me.”

“No, you’d look stupid in a sports car,” Anathema agreed.

“You know what? I know of a classic car show in Chichester, if you’re interested. It’s coming up soon,” Crowley offered. “If you’re not in the market for, say, a red Ferrari, then perhaps a white, early 1960s model Ford Fairlane would suit you better? Or something of that ilk?”

Newt’s eyebrows went up, and his mouth went down-turned in an expression of delightedly mulling-it-over. 

“Would something that old also be reliable?” Anathema wondered.

Crowley answered, “They’ve all had body restoration, engine restoration – all new parts if need be, and added bonus: classic cars aren’t computerised.”

“That’s a good point!” Anathema said. “We couldn’t have a high-tech car anyway, could we?”

“No, never,” Newt said to Anathema. “Can’t risk my tech curse foiling a trip to the incense store.”

“Shut up. I ride my bike,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue playfully. Of Crowley, she asked, “Where is this thing again?”

“Chichester. Down south,” Newt answered, in lieu of Crowley. “I know exactly where it is – I grew up down that way, just off the A3. Chichester is pretty much a straight shot from here.”

“When?” asked Anathema.

“I’d tell you, if I had my phone,” Crowley said.

Anathema pulled out hers, and began a search. “Will you come with us?” she asked as she searched. “I mean, I don’t know anything… neither does Newt. Hate for us to get taken.”

“Sure,” Crowley answered. “It’s been a while. Might be fun.”

\---------------------------------------------------

On the walk back to the flat, Aziraphale mused, “Well, I suppose when you go to that car show, it shall be the first day spent without you in a while. I wonder if I’ll have forgotten what to do with myself.”

“What? You’re not coming”

“To a car show?” Aziraphale asked, amused. “I rather think not.”

“Come on, angel, I hang out with your books all the time. I’ve learned to cook for you, and I tried yoga and pyjamas.”

“Yes, and I’ve taken showers, watched television, and had... you know, ravioli with you."

“So now we’re just going to pick and choose with creature comforts we share with each other? What’s the point of that?”

“How are cars a creature comfort? I mean, I know you've asserted this before, but must say, Crowley, I don't really understand."

“It’s an interest. The trivia of it, the beauty of it, it’s something I can immerse myself in. Not to mention the literal escapism, the spectacle, and the car as an expression of my personality,” Crowley explained, trying to sound nonchalant. He wanted Aziraphale to understand his passion and attend the show with him, but he wasn’t yet ready to sound supplicant. “It’s a very human invention that made human life easier, and my life as a demon a bit richer. Cars were interesting to me from the very first Model-T.”

“I see.”

“Now take everything I just said, and replace ‘cars’ with ‘books.’”

Aziraphale gave his companion a sheepish grin. “Are you quite sure you’re playing fair?”

“So far, yes,” Crowley answered. “All right, angel, you want me to play dirty? Convince you to do something by appealing to your baser instincts? I’ve got some experience with that.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed, but his heart fluttered a bit.

“Didn’t you say that being in the Bentley makes you feel a bit…”

“Concupiscent?”

“What the Hell does Concupiscent mean? Never mind - I can guess. I would have just said 'horny,' but it's as you like, Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered prudently. “But it’s not about the car, Crowley, it’s about you, and the loving care you show to it. I’ll admit, it’s a bit titillating being surrounded by something that you love so much, something you’ve so painstakingly kept pristine. Something that’s such a big flaming beacon indicating your personality, not to mention how cool and virile the thing clearly makes you feel.”

“Yeah, well, perhaps it might be fun to watch me fawn over a whole bunch of cars, eh? I mean, it won’t be one that I’ve pampered for ninety years, but… Aziraphale, these vehicles are stunning. True works of art – both the original design and the restoration! They’re not just machines, they’re almost sentient – each one has a temperament, and particular needs, and…”

From there, Crowley dived into the history of Bentley Motors and he talked, the former angel listened to what he said, and thought that observing him at the Chichester car show might, indeed, be stimulating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine seems to be winding down, though we don't know when the end is coming... which just means that I'm more fatigued than ever. It's getting more and more difficult to clear time to write, and gather the energy. However, if I don't write, I feel that I lose myself a little.
> 
> Please let me know that my efforts are not in vain. Leave a comment, some thoughts, a review, etc. And thank you, as always, for reading!


	17. Moving South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are headed to a vintage car exhibition, south of London, with their friends from Tadfield. But there are a few creature comforts they must take care of first. In fact, Crowley takes great care in orchestrating a memorable morning/afternoon!
> 
> No smut yet, but the seeds are planted, and there are a few lusty squees!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next, I won't lie, are a little awkward. I had a hard time connecting the Bentley, Crowley's love, the aromas, the music, in a cohesive way. It took forever to write and I've fine-tuned the crap out of it, but it still feels like a giraffe's head on a penguin body, so to speak. Somehow.
> 
> I didn't want to put too fine a point on the effect the Bentley has on Aziraphale, because it seems like a cheap squee. Rather, I wanted a depth of complex feeling to come through, so that we understand how Aziraphale feels, and what the Bentley has got to do with it.
> 
> So... it's weird, but I hope you enjoy it!

As it turned out, Newt and Anathema were lucky that Crowley thought of the Chichester car show when he did, as the event was coming close – over the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of the following weekend.

Aziraphale had decided to go, after all. He had absolutely no interest in motor vehicles (apart from one), vintage or otherwise, but he’d been talked into it. Crowley waxing poetic over the creativity, care, and engineering that went into crafting an automobile had been surprising and charming, and Aziraphale found it impossible to say no after that. Interestingly, Crowley hadn’t even had his full temptation engine revving then… he’d just been musing over something he truly enjoyed.

But accident or not, Aziraphale was convinced. And human or not, the formerly professional tempter was not one to waste an opportunity like this. This little boon created an opportunity for another delicious “first” for the two of them.

When they had awakened that morning, the owner of a shiny, mostly black, Depression-era Bentley had announced that he had a thing or two to take care of before they could drive down to Chichester. The two of them agreed to meet in front of the building at half-past nine.

First stop was to fuel up (which Crowley still found annoying, especially since cars this age were not known for their excellent petrol mileage), then just down the street for a wash, wax and detail. He had never needed to do any of these things before, but things were different now, so he had pored over a half-dozen services in London’s periphery that would perform such services on a vintage car. He had agonised over the choice. He had pored over review after review, testimonials, complaints, and had finally settled upon a shop northwest of the city. He’d spent all week on this decision, had made the appointment, and had done all the reading he could find on the topic, what sorts of equipment were used, and what could be expected…

But he still watched with a knot in his stomach, as he watched a total stranger start up his car, and drive it under a canopy.

The man climbed out of the car and noticed him still standing, watching. He smiled, probably quite used to this sort of thing. “She’ll be fine. Go on – go get a cup of tea, and come back in an hour.”

When he’d said this, he had nodded at a little shop across the street that had a pink and white striped awning in a mock-Tudor style building. It was a tea shop, and Crowley did not fancy it in the least. But he nodded, crossed the road, entered, realising that it was entirely populated with pensioners (making him the oldest person in the place, as usual, but the youngest-looking). He reluctantly walked up to the counter, not sure of what else to do.

He chose espresso over tea, and sat for precisely an hour by the front window, hoping to be able to see the Bentley across the street being treated, but the staff had pulled a garage door down, concealing their work from view. He found that the mobile signal was dreadful, and there was no Wifi, so he spent the time reading a newspaper left behind by a previous patron. 

As he was leaving, he caught a whiff of something delicious – bacon sammies. He bought two, knowing that if anything could seduce Aziraphale, it was the aroma of something delicious. (Though, he didn’t honestly think much convincing would be involved. His formerly angelic partner was usually quite pliable when it came to matters of the flesh. Still, as a tempter, he did appreciate craftsmanship, no matter what Hastur or Ligur might have said.)

The car detailers had done an excellent job, so he paid them, thanked them, and left.

______________________________________________________

Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot – far from it. Moreover, he was more sensitive and intuitive than your average human, and even your average angel. Plus, he knew his partner well.   
Thus, he had an idea that he was about to be “handled” somehow, possibly seduced. Crowley had announced that he was going to see to his car, and then had done an eyebrow flutter that revealed something was up. All one needed to know was that Aziraphale had recently revealed to him that he had always found being in that car a bit titillating, considering the care that Crowley showed it, and how much he loved it. If Aziraphale confessed to being aroused by something, there was no way that Crowley would let that pass without some sort of production. It was literally in his nature (or at least, it used to be). And given that he’d been able to convince Aziraphale to come on the jaunt to Chichester without even trying, and they had a chunk of time alone together in the car coming up…

…and they had agreed to meet at half-nine, and no-one was even allowed on the show grounds until at least two o’clock, it was reasonable to assume that there would be some sort of B-road. Both literal and figurative.

Aziraphale still kept his suits and accessories in “his” room, the room that Crowley had accidentally had decorated to please his angelic friend, several years ago, before serious thoughts of cohabitation existed. He now stood in front of the mirror in his lovely walk-in closet, trying to decide on which tartan bowtie went best with the vintage ensemble he had chosen.

And as he did so, he contemplated the past century or so.

As a demon, Crowley had always driven the vehicle far too fast, but had the magical capability of never hitting anything (apart from Anathema on her bike, but only because none of the three of them had been paying attention). Nevertheless, this habit made Aziraphale nervous, and he frequently scolded Crowley in between shrieks over his recklessness. He exceeded any sort of halfway-sane speed guideline, he was careless, and acted like a bloody demon. But no-one, not even Aziraphale, could say that the experience wasn’t stimulating. Or that it wasn’t thoroughly Crowley.

Crowley had forever projected the image of an unflappable bad boy, stylish, confident, flush – whatever the era, whatever the style of the moment, he had it. But when he’d acquired the Bentley ninety(ish) years ago, something had changed. All of that Crowley-ness solidified, and he himself admitted that the car became a “body glove.” He basically became one with the car, and a new dimension was added to his personality, a new kind of power and virility. Literal ploughing forward, heavy-duty, going-somewhere power. The way he slithered in and out of it like a snake, and walked toward it and away from it cavalierly, in his dark glasses, as though the car were just an appendage, and basically immaterial because he was just THAT cool… 

But then, underneath it all, the way he made meticulously certain that the Bentley was always pristine (except when he had no choice but to drive it through a wall of Hellfire)… that’s what made it all such an “inspiring” phenomenon for Aziraphale. That, and the coolness, the sleek masculinity, the stimulation (even if it was terrifying)…

The cynic in him wondered if he had been projecting himself onto the car all these years, and seeing parallels in his own relationship with Crowley. The demon had often treated the angel rather coolly, as immaterial, like a limb, just a part of his life, which he could handle with ease, like everything else. But obviously that demeanour was a necessary mask for his actual feelings and intentions.

And so, Aziraphale wondered if whatever temptation Crowley had up his sleeve would work. Actually, one way or the other, whatever Crowley wanted to do today was fine with him. Aziraphale was surely not going to play hard-to-get (such a thing would never really occur to him). But, would the Bentley continue to be a place where, being surrounded by Crowley-ness, and the accompanying virility and love, would give Aziraphale the metaphorical vapours? Especially now that their relationship had come to its full fruition, and Aziraphale had no need to project?

\-------------------------------------------

Obviously, Crowley knew full well that Aziraphale was not making the trip to Chichester in order to ooh and aah over vintage cars. His motivations, ironically, were a lot less pure than Crowley’s, which was not only interesting, but really fucking hot. And he wanted to make blessed sure that this trip was one worth making… for the both of them.

He parked the big black-and-graphite car in the same spot where he used to: illegally, directly in front of the building. Nowadays, he had to be more careful about his parking choices, since there was a paper trail from the Bentley to him, and he couldn’t just “miracle away” a summons, or the scratches left by keys of people who hated seeing it there. 

Aziraphale hadn’t come down just yet, so he took a moment to let the air in the car infuse with the scent of bacon, and to circle round and make sure that no errant fingerprints had appeared on the car’s surface on the drive back from the detail shop.

He actually did find a few on one of the headlight frames. He pretended to be vexed, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and along with a bit of hot breath, used it to carefully eradicate the prints from the surface of his automobile.

“Well, aren’t you the fastidious autophile?” a voice said.

Crowley looked up, and there stood Aziraphale, dressed as always, watching delightedly as he fretted over his car.

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley cooed, walking smoothly round the front of the Bentley.

“And to you,” answered Aziraphale, with an adorable little bow. “Goodness me, Crowley. A handkerchief to the headlight wells? And you say I’m fussy.”

Crowley smirked. “We all have our moments. If a man’s home is his castle, then his car is his chariot.”

Aziraphale thought about that. “I can see that that is true.”

“Ready to go?”

“I should think so,” Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. 

He was now convinced that the seduction would work, and Crowley could see it in that little insecure bob of an Adam’s apple.

Aziraphale stepped forward, reached out and pulled the car door open. Immediately, he was assailed by the absolutely Heavenly scent of unhealthy bacon sammies, balancing innocently between the seats. He couldn’t help but close his eyes and inhale heartily, and nearly let out his own little lusty expletive. He shifted his eyes toward his companion, who peered over his sunglasses at him, and flitted a naughty eyebrow before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

Aziraphale got in beside him, his body buzzing. The sheer potency of the love surrounding him – for the car, as well as the care that must’ve gone into preparing it for Aziraphale, rendered him just a bit breathless, and more than just a bit tingly. In all the right places. He could smell the bacon, of course, and the buttery croissant that held it together. But he could also smell a faintly fruity scent of a mild cleaning agent, as well as a special oil that one might massage into leather upholstery. Crowley had not only had the car waxed, but also detailed.

For him. It was all he could do to inhale the bouquet of adoring aromas, and not moan as he exhaled.

The cool driver was no longer was able to peel away from the kerb like a madman. Rather, he carefully drifted down the block, stopped, then eased into traffic like a perfectly reasonable, devoted, safe motorist.

“So,” Aziraphale said, after a few minutes of trying to calm himself enough to speak without trembling. “How long is the drive?”

“For a human who doesn’t wish to crash his car into a guardrail? Just under two hours,” Crowley answered.

“I see. That’s quite a bit of time.”

“One could see it that way.”

“But didn’t you tell me that the auto show doesn’t open its doors until two o’clock this afternoon?”

“I did.”

“It’s not even ten o’clock,” Aziraphale sang, coyly.

“What ever shall we do to kill the time?”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the low, secretive way in which this very much rhetorical question was delivered, and left no doubt (as if there had been any) as to Crowley's intentions. Although, one question remained: how could they keep their goings-on private? Aziraphale didn’t ask, though… he couldn’t quite form language on his tongue.

"Well," he said. "These smell delicious!" He picked up one of the sandwiches and unwrapped it. He then carefully re-wrapped it with only half of the sandwich exposed, and offered it to Crowley, so that he could grip the wrapper while driving. Crowley took it with thanks, and bit into it.

They ate in silence (or in small-talk) for about ten minutes, and both rather regretted not being able to face each other and fully enjoy the experience of the salt and grease and hunger sated together. Nevertheless, Aziraphale smacked his lips when finished and commented, “Absolutely scrummy. Thanks for that, my love.”

“Mm, you’re welcome,” Crowley responded, chewing the last of his, and relishing hearing the word ‘scrummy’ coming from his lover’s lips.

Neither of them had ever taken food nor beverage in the car before, so Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do with the wrappers. It seemed wrong to toss them on the floor, even temporarily, and they certainly couldn’t just throw them out the window. So Aziraphale carefully folded them and pushed them into his pocket.

It was around then that Crowley leaned forward and turned on some music. A catchy, low bass beat began. Aziraphale was definitely not a fan of modern music on the whole, but this, he didn’t mind too much. He had heard it many times before, both in and out of Crowley’s presence, and even tapped his fingers to the beat.

“Steve walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low,” sang the voice. “Ain’t no sound, but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go. Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? Are you hanging on by the edge of your seat? Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat. Another one bites the dust…”

Aziraphale had two absent thoughts. 1) This song was nigh on impossible not to feel in one’s bones, not to tap-along to, given the beat, and the clipped, exciting delivery of the lyrics – no wonder it was such a hit. 2) If he were to choose a song to accompany Crowley and his Bentley, this one would probably be it. Whenever he was out in the world and heard it, he never failed to think of his friend/adversary.

The next song came on. An electronic buzz began it, and it was a much less-commonly-heard song, but still familiar.

“Ooh, you make me live,” sang what sounded almost like a Barbershop Quartet, dressed up for rock ‘n’ roll. “Whatever this world can give to me, it’s you, you’re all I see.”

“What’s the name of this song?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at him with surprise. He had never heard the angel, nor the man he’d become, show any interest in music popular after1890. 

“Erm, it’s called ‘You’re My Best Friend.’ Why?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I like that title. I ask only because I’ve heard it before, but only in your car.”

“Really? It’s a pretty popular song.”

“Certainly not like the one you previously played.”

“’Another One Bites the Dust?’ You’re right.”

“This one is nice enough, but not as catchy.”

“And yet, you recognise it?”

“Well, yes. From your car.”

“I’ve played it for you a lot. It’s good to know it sank in.”

“You did it on purpose?”

“Mm. I used to try to make sure it played at least twice each time we went anywhere… though it was tough on short trips.”

“Oh… no wonder…”

Crowley nodded, and looked to his left at his companion. “Surprised?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Not in the least. But it does explain why, perhaps, these songs by, erm… Queen, is it?”

“Yes!”

“Why they are, in my mind, so much part of the, erm… experience of being in this car.”

“Well, to be fair, the car used to play Queen of its own volition.”

“But now I know you made sure I heard it,” Aziraphale said softly, a bit breathlessly. The tingly sensation had ebbed away since stowing away the sandwich wrappers, but now it was back. He’d been reminded of the love he had always felt whilst riding in the car. Though now, he realised he hadn’t always been fully conscious of it… it rather infused him, as though the love and heat were in the air.

“So,” Crowley sang, and Aziraphale knew immediately that something flirtatious or lascivious or massively tempting was about to come out of his mouth. “The music is part of the package, eh?”

“Indeed. Though I don’t know if I had realised it until today. And now, the scent of bacon and croissants, and that leather massage oil…” came the somewhat shaky response.

“So, when we went to Tadfield together that first time, and you said you felt love…”

“It was love. Adam’s love for the area. But filtered through what I already feel when I’m here, in this seat, inside the Bentley, and beside you…” Aziraphale pursed his lips and let out an audible exhale that was, indeed, part of the language. “It was heady. Very, very potent.”

“Mm… so, in a moment like that one, was there anything playing behind those blue eyes that I should know about?”

“Do you mean, like…”

“I mean, you told me that being in the car is titillating to you. And is it?”

“It is,” Aziraphale said, sounding as though his voice might collapse at any moment. “It definitely, definitely is. I thought perhaps the effect would have worn off by now, given, well, some of the things that you and I get up to nowadays. But as it turns out, just the opposite is true.”

“And when you’ve felt titillated in the car, angel, what goes through your mind? Even before we were, you know… getting up to stuff, did you have any, say, ‘cravings’ as we were bursting forth in the night, covered in this strong, hard, powerful shell? Headed in a direction that only we knew? Clandestinely enjoying each other whilst Heaven and Hell toiled with their ineffable agenda?”

“Very tempting rhetoric. You were excellent at your job, weren’t you?” Aziraphale marvelled.

“The best.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes and exhaled. Without opening them, he said, “I do confess to having entertained an impure thought or two – or three, or ten, or a hundred – more or less against my will.”

“Are you going to volunteer an example, or do I have to pull it out of you? Either of which sound kind of fun.”

“One afternoon when we were headed to the coast, remember? It was in the 1960s and for some reason, we decided to take a half-case of wine to a seaside cliff, get drunk, and watch the sun go down?”

“Mm-hm. Vividly. We found a secluded little bench where no-one could see us. If only you knew the things I almost did that evening, angel.”

“If only you had. I might actually have been amenable just then.”

“Really? Well, shit.”

“During the drive, Crowley, I happened to glance down, and fancied that I could see your trousers bulging… just so. Wondered if you were having… thoughts. Which begat my own thoughts.”

“Oh, well, perhaps I was,” Crowley said, briefly looking at him and flitting an eyebrow. He was wearing sunglasses, but the flit was unmistakable.

“I still don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I stole as many looks as I could, but of course, I had never actually seen what a good trouser-bulge looks like, so…”

“And how did you feel about it, angel?”

“I felt… well, appalled at first. And then nervous. Which would have been daft, if you were just some bloke, but you weren’t. And some part of me became aware of why it made me nervous, because…”

By now, Aziraphale was breathing a bit hard, and he was conscious that a bit of a bulge was forming in his own trousers.

“Because?” Crowley asked, staring straight forward, smirking. He placed his hand gently on the inside of his own thigh, and stroked a bit absently, totally aware that this would give his partner a little surge of lust, and possibly the impetus he would need in order to finish his story.

“Because… a vision appeared in my mind of reaching over to feel it. Feel you. To know finally what it’s like to have one in my hand. A hard phallus, aroused and ready… and yours, no less. I wondered if I could feel it throb through the cloth. As you know, I’d avoided touching even my own. And I imagined that you would make a little moan, and smirk knowingly like you are now, and say something encouraging under your breath, whilst still driving, and looking straight ahead…”

“Something encouraging? Like, ‘oh, that’s right, angel, give it a good stroke, and don’t stop,’” Crowley muttered. 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale sighed, a wave of want coming over him. “And I wondered what would happen if I unzipped your trousers. Would it just pop out? Or would I have to coax it? I had no idea. And a part of me so dearly wanted to know.”

“And if you had found out then?”

“I suppose I did imagine stroking it. But then I shook off the vision and…”

“Not vision. Fantasy.”

“Well, yes.”

“Are you imagining it now?”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“I must say I quite fancy the idea now of watching you try to handle this big, powerful machine as if nothing is going on, while I fondle you, and see if you can achieve orgasm without killing us both.”

He saw Crowley adjust himself in his trousers, and he was now quite sure of the bulge forming there – just so – as he now knew what to look for.

Crowley growled, “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to stay on the road if you did that and I’m not willing to risk our lives, or this car. But I’m also not about to waste this opportunity.”

“I didn’t for a moment think you would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to disclaim: I did do a bit of reading up Bentleys, and found a pretty good article specifically about Crowley's Bentley. In the book, it is described as a 1926 model, though in the Prime series, the car used was a 1933 model. Gaiman explains that 1926 sounded good in 1989 when they were writing the book, but in the days before Google, they really weren't certain of its look. Turns out, a 1930's Bentley is far sleeker, and much better suits Crowley's character.
> 
> Apparently, the car could go about 30 miles per hour tops, and any faster speeds seen in the series were done with CGI. Obviously, Crowley the demon could make the car go as fast as he wanted, but Crowley the man would likely be stuck at 30mph. However, for my purposes, Crowley's Bentley has no problem keeping up on the motorway... things are easier this way. If they had to discuss replacing the Bentley, their relationship might be tested far too much for the likes of this story! ;-) And the chapter would be more unwieldy than it already is!
> 
> So, what did you think? I could REALLY use a bit of feedback on this chapter, as it might inform what happens next! (I mean, there will be smut, but perhaps with your help, I can make it less awkward?)
> 
> Don't let my fights with myself and the slowly-waning quarantine be in vain! Comments are the lifeblood of a writer! Thank you for reading.


	18. Claygate Uncommon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's Bentley-love-and-bacon-flavoured seduction has worked, and he's been able to extract a fifty-year-old, in-Bentley fantasy from Aziraphale's fevered imagination... and now he's pulled off the road. Where are they going and what will they be doing? 
> 
> This is smut. Smut smut. :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments dispelling my fear that the previous chapter is awkward... it makes it a little easier to post this one. 
> 
> For one thing, I could not resist telling one quick story about one of Crowley's more recent temptation efforts. These stories and their possibilities are fascinating to me. So, just a warning, there's a slight veering-off into past demonic work, before we get to the real action... bear with me. Enjoy!

Crowley pulled off the A3, with a determined, directive look on his face. His partner sat beside him, panting a bit, white-knuckling the door handle, but for a different reason than usual. Both were persistently aroused, with certain words and images echoing in their minds.

Neither had said anything for a few minutes, but when they descended into a treed road, just wide enough for one car, Aziraphale asked, unable to help himself, “Crowley, where are we headed? Surely what you have in mind is illegal.”

“Yes, but, call me an old demon,” Crowley growled back. “I’m not particularly concerned.”

Aziraphale had known that this might happen from the start, when Crowley had announced he’d be having the car fixed up. But, it was just now occurring to him what could happen if they were caught.

“But what if we’re arrested?”

“We’ll pay a fine."

“It would be humiliating!”

“Well, it’s not like it’d be on the news! And it's not like either of us is answerable to anyone." A pause, then, "So, then, what? What would you like to do? Get a room?”

“No… not now…”

“Go back home?”

“No…”

“Hold it in check until after the auto show? Suffer through the drive home?” Crowley paused, then added, “That actually might be kind of fun.”

“Well…” Aziraphale contemplated. Then, he let out a little frustrated grunt. “I'll do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Of course. Damn it." There was a pause, and then, "Oh Crowley, I want to go somewhere private with you, of course, but I'm nervous about the exposedness..."

“Just trust me,” Crowley said, gently. “I know a place. This sort of thing happens all the time there, mostly at night. It’s an open secret. The police just sort of ignore it, as long as everyone is quiet and not, you know, all on display and whatnot."

“How do you know about this?”

“Promise not to judge me?”

“No, I can’t promise that at all!”

Crowley sighed. “Maybe fifteen years or so ago, I undid the internet filters on a seminary.”

“What’s an internet filter?”

“Most institutions – like seminaries, like hospitals, certainly schools – have programmes that control what internet users can and cannot see while they’re inside. It basically keeps people from watching porn in inappropriate places.”

“I see. A very good idea. I had no idea such a thing existed.”

“What, filters? Or porn?” Crowley had a little smirk when he asked this.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Filters. For the internet. It seems eminently reasonable.”

“Yeah, well, it was my job to undo what was ‘reasonable,’ yeah? And you know, I just thought it would be a good bit of mischief. I pulled down the filter, then prevented them from fixing it for four or five days. I was just sort of giggling to myself about it when I realised that one of the younger priests had never seen pornography before, and when he got his hands on it, so to speak, he couldn’t stop.”

“Oh. Well, speaking as someone who’s recently been introduced to carnality and pleasure after a life of abstention, I suppose I can hardly blame the poor chap.”

“Yeah, well, he was missing classes, missing Sunday dinners with his family, even appointments with professors. And when he wasn’t in his dormitory committing increasingly athletic acts of onanism, he was in confession. So, I worked as a caretaker on the grounds for a couple of weeks, befriended him (that’s how I know about the, er, onanism bit) and I started asking him if the priesthood was really for him.”

“Crowley! That’s terrible! Tempting a young man out of doing God’s work!”

“Come on, angel, do I really have to say it?"

"Say what?"

"I. Was. A. Demon.” Crowley paused for effect, and then continued. “Last half-century or so, I’ve not really gone in for the individualised bouts of humiliation and disgrace, especially after I gave up the temptation shags, and humans became so dependent upon technology. So I had thought I was just creating an insidious nuisance, and things just sort of, you know… ended up that way. Young bloke, not sure about the priesthood…”

“So, did he leave the priesthood?”

“Well, I decided to test him. I introduced him to a young novice nun from a convent nearby, whom I knew to be having some of the same issues. They saw each other secretly for a few weeks… you know, clandestinely. Like you and me. And I did some research about where such a couple could go without being seen, and found out about this spot in Claygate Common where people, you know… carry out secretive, yet strangely overt, sexual exploits. I hired them a car and sent them to the site just to see what would happen.”

“And?”

“They shagged until the deposit on the car was good and lost. Or, would have been, if I hadn’t fixed it.”

“You watched?”

“No, but I saw what they did to the car. I had to do some very strange magic before returning it to the rental office.”

“Oh, dear.”

“And they’re married with kids now.”

“Ah, well, that doesn’t sound too demonic.”

“Indeed, not,” Crowley sighed. “Had to do a bit of finessing so that, you know, Head Office Downstairs would find out about the internet filter thing, and about tempting them to the site, but not the fact that they lived happily ever after.”

“Well, that’s the best bit,” Aziraphale marvelled.

“Yeah, you would say that,” Crowley muttered. Then with an exhale, he admitted, “And I suppose so would I.”

“One does love a good happily-ever-after.”

Crowley looked over at him, and they made a kind of sweet, suggestive eye-contact that hadn’t passed between them in quite some time. It was coy and restrained, whereas their goings-on recently had been much more explicit and unhinged.

It gave Aziraphale a chill, and he averted his eyes shyly as he had in the old days.

Crowley smirked. “Still want to?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale breathed, stealing a glance at the straining front of his companion’s trousers. Because the fact was, his body desperately wanted to, even though, despite Crowley’s words, he couldn’t help but worry about being discovered ‘in flagrante delicto.’ He was not particularly well-practised in the art of self-control in these matters, at least not with the scent of love and lust upon the air, and his enticing companion sitting with a massive erection, within reach-out-and-stroke distance.

No more words were spoken until Crowley had manoeuvred the Bentley into Claygate Common, around some twists and bends, into a dirt carpark area surrounded by trees. 

No-one was there, and indeed, the stillness and silence gave the impression that they were the only two people in the universe.

And then, the handbrake was set, and the engine turned off.

For several moments silence simply infused them. Aziraphale found it reassuring.

He decided to use it. He shed his jacket, and threw it in the backseat, removed his constrictive bowtie and closed his eyes once again. He took in the Bentley’s unique scents, including the pleasant-smelling chemicals used to detail the car. He also detected in the air the last hints of the breakfast Crowley had obtained specially for them… just because he knew Aziraphale would love it.

And the heady, musky, powerful scent of Crowley himself – a combination of aftershave, expensive hair products, and his natural skin and sweat. Absent today was the smell of leather, which was, at times, part of the bouquet of Crowley, dependent upon his clothing.

At the moment, he was just wearing fitted dark jeans and a black tee-shirt with his favourite charcoal-grey Valentino blazer with the red panel under the back of the collar.

“Taking it all in, angel?” Crowley asked, softly.

“Indeed.”

“Can you still smell love?”

“Oh, yes. I can practically taste it.”

“Hm. Interesting word choice.”

With that, Aziraphale turned his head to the right and looked squarely at his shadowy companion, who was looking back, through a pair of dark glasses, which he wore because it was a sunny day.

For all that had changed for them on the inside when they had become human, to the objective observer, the only apparent difference between Crowley the demon and Crowley the man was his eyes. Sometimes, Aziraphale now admitted to himself, he missed the predatory, reptilian yellow pools that used to hide behind those glasses. They were the eyes of a demon, someone forbidden to him, a tempter, eyes that he’d had to keep concealed for most of his very long life.

And just now, Crowley looked every bit the demonic havoc-wreaker he once was.

So, when he reached up to take off his glasses, Aziraphale grabbed his hand gently. “Leave them on. Please.”

And breathing in the love all around him, Crowley looking all minion-of-Hell, and trees ensconcing them on all sides, Aziraphale was brought back to their drives to and from Tadfield, seeking the Antichrist, then seeking a book. He’d felt a potent urge during those trips, and he put himself back there.

Angel, demon, big black car moving at insane speeds down the motorway, the two of them secretly meeting and hoping not to get caught…

He reached out with his right hand, and it landed on Crowley’s left thigh. They both watched intently as the hand crawled up and landed on the swollen lump straining the former demon’s jeans. Aziraphale squeezed through the fabric, firmly, as it was thick fabric, and Crowley moaned.

“Would you like to show it to me?” Aziraphale asked, coyly. “Bring it out in the open and let me hold it?”

“Sure, angel, you can hold it. Although... I don’t know if I should tell you what I’d really like you to do with it,” Crowley answered, unfastening his trousers, and reaching inside. His cock was now protruding through the v-shaped opening, purple-headed, throbbing, oozing.

Aziraphale turned fully to his right, making it easier to reach forward and grasp the hard shaft, begging to be handled.

He began to spread the slippery leaking liquid over the head with one finger, swirling it around several times before asking, “What you'd really like me to do... hm, did you mean this?” He knew full well that this wasn’t what his lover wanted. He leaned in closer and kissed the long neck, exposed above the stylish jacket’s collar. As he did so, he grasped the pulsating shaft fully in his hand, and began to stroke. "Or this?"

“Mm,” Crowley moaned. “Not gonna turn it down. Only grasp a bit harder.”

Aziraphale tightened his grip, and continued to move his hand up and down, slowly. “Oh. This, then.” Another kiss on Crowley’s neck, and a little nip at an earlobe.

Still, Aziraphale knew quite well that it wasn’t going to be enough. Sure, he could continue, he could go faster and faster, and whisper obscene things and make this gorgeous creature spurt like a bottle of shaken champagne, and it would be glorious. But…

“That’s fantastic, angel,” Crowley moaned, laying his head back. “But it’s going to be messy. And I didn’t bring a spare pair of trousers.”

“Oh, dear,” mused the former angel. “Well, perhaps we can use the sandwich wrappers to catch any, er, debris that might result.”

Crowley chuckled in spite of himself, and in spite of his lover’s hand moving deftly over his throbbing, glistening cock. “You are ever the problem-solver, angel.”

“It might be best, given that we’ve still got a day ahead of us at an auto show, and your jeans being speckled with your dried-up emissions would not do at all.”

“No, it would not do.” After a few beats, a few moans, a few more kisses, he said, “You fucking tease, you’re going to make me ask for it, aren’t you?”

“No, love,” Aziraphale said, with an indulgent smile. “Unless you want to.”

“Unless what?"

Aziraphale leaned forward and whispered hotly in his companion’s ear, “Crowley, I’ll take your cock into my mouth and throat any day of the week… but you seem to quite fancy saying filthy things to me, and listening to them makes me hard as granite.”

Crowley groaned, hearing these words come so primly, quietly out of Aziraphale’s pretty, eager mouth. He quickly adjusted the seat to put more room between him and the steering wheel, and slumped down just a bit. “All right then. Suck out a mouthful of come, and don’t be all fucking angelic about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale whispered subtly as he shifted his body and bent forward to do as Crowley wanted. He grasped the base of the shaft and slid his mouth over it, devouring it like a gourmet dessert, and moaning wantonly.

But it was the next stroke, when he tightened his jaw and dragged his teeth up the impatient dick, that made Crowley take in air through his teeth with a sinister hiss, and then splatter the sounds of, “Ugh! Shit!” all over the silent interior of the car.

It was a technique he knew would send Crowley through the roof, but he hadn’t used it in a while. Relatively speaking.

He moved his taut lips back down and in short order, the mushrooming head was lodged in Aziraphale’s throat, and both men gave a good moan. Then Aziraphale repeated the action – tight jaw, teeth, slowly scraping Crowley’s distended flesh, in a gesture that surely caused pain, but gave a former demon absolutely obscene, eye-crossing pleasure. 

And repeat. Crowley’s cock down his throat. Tight teeth, and a hiss. And again.

“Faster, angel,” Crowley breathed. “I'll turn to dust if you keep this up.”

Aziraphale moved marginally faster, then marginally faster again. He increased his speed bit by bit, which caused Crowley to curse several times, but suspense was what they were after, was it not? Soon, he was not able to maintain a pattern that included his teeth scraping his partner’s member, but Crowley didn’t seem to mind. 

Indeed, Crowley felt the pressure ramping up – his first-ever canoodle in the Bentley, a naughty, public blow job, the echoes of Aziraphale’s filthy language in his ears…

He braced one hand against the door and the other against the back of the passenger seat, and just watched. A head covered with pure white curly hair bobbed in his lap, a sight that, in and of itself, was enough to make him shoot off like a canon. His dick became sheathed every second in a hot, slippery mouth, and his favourite voice in the universe was giving shameless, muffled moans over and over again.

They were moans of supplication. If Aziraphale could have begged Crowley in that moment to let it all go, pump his mouth full of his warm, milky pleasure, and blaspheme horribly while doing so, he would have. As it was, he couldn’t speak, he could only make sounds that made him seem like a lusty animal. And he supposed that’s what he was. Now.

But he didn’t have to beg.

Soon enough, he felt a large hand grasping at the back of his neck, and another one at the top of his head, and heard the words, “Holy fuck… are you ready for me to defile that angelic mouth?”

“Mm-hm! Mmm…”

And as a wave of salty cream washed over Aziraphale’s tongue, followed by another spurt, he heard a low growl of “Oh, look at you swallow it all!”

Two more waves of come, two more deep groans from Aziraphale as it all slid down his throat, and he relished in the filth, and the abandon. He reached forward with one hand to pump out the last few spurts. 

“Oh angel,” Crowley groaned as it all wound down, and he was nearly breathless. “I’m so glad God created you to be gluttonous.”

When Crowley let go of his head, Aziraphale reluctantly pulled his mouth away with a slurp and a pop, he sat up and licked his lips. “God created me to be sensitive,” he corrected, primly wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

“Yes, and intelligent, and a little bit of a bastard. All of that is just enough to make you a fairly shameless pleasure-seeker.”

“Well, I suppose you’re not wrong about that.”

“So, this is going to feel fucking Heavenly.”

Crowley tucked himself back into his trousers and exited the car, shut the door, and walked round the front. Aziraphale watched him with piqued interest, as he shed his jacket as well, then pulled open the passenger side door. He tossed the jacket into the backseat, and Aziraphale yelped delightedly when Crowley stuck his head inside and planted a hearty kiss on his lips.

When Crowley pulled away from the kiss, he began to advance forward, and Aziraphale instinctively retreated. “Lie down, angel,” he said, as his lover moved his body sideways and laid his head down on the seat beside the steering wheel. Crowley crawled in on top, and allowed his body to press down. He cupped Aziraphale’s jaw with one hand, and plunged his tongue into the very Heavenly mouth below. He tasted his own come, which reduced him to feral growls.

“Shit, angel, I was going to tease you a bit, but I don’t think I can,” came the low grumble in Aziraphale’s ear as Crowley spread open the already unbuttoned collar, and began to nip with half-bites, all over the smooth, Heavenly neck.

He pulled back then, and basically exited the car. His knees were now planted in the dirt of Claygate Common, and Aziraphale’s feet and calves were hanging off the end of the seat. Crowley urged him to move down, bend his knees and put his shoes on the earth, then he reached forward and unbuttoned the Victorian glen-tartan trousers, straining from extra ready-to-burst girth.

“Oh, please hurry,” Aziraphale panted.

And Crowley took a moment to marvel: of all of the trousers, togas, tunics, dresses, corsets, britches, skirts, and chemises he had undone over the years, none were as sweet as these fussy Victorian suit trousers, of which Aziraphale owned an untold number.

“So sweet,” he hissed as he pulled Aziraphale’s straining cock out into the open and licked the underside as though it were a pink ice lolly.

Aziraphale was so on-edge, he spat a loud, “Fuck!” of his own, and one hand jerked over his head to brace himself against the impact. He grasped the driver's side door handle until his knuckles turned white, and his back arched, as he moaned into the intensity of it.

The serpentine tongue then whirled around the bloated purple head, and licked a few more times, teasing, causing throbs, short breaths, and a prodigious ooze of precome. This, of course, was promptly lapped up, and Aziraphale moaned hard, with some incoherent consonant and vowel combinations...

Crowley had the vague notion that his companion was trying to form words, but had been rendered inarticulate. He smirked, gave a few more licks of the thick, straining shaft, then enveloped the thing with his mouth with a lusty groan.

“Uggghhh…ssss….” came from Aziraphale. It was probably “oh yes,” but this was as eloquent as he could get at the moment.

Crowley’s lips pressed against the sparking body, and he moaned maniacally, with a half-laugh, at the gorgeous sensation of, frankly, being on his knees in the dirt and having his throat filled by the head of his angel’s dick. He pursed his lips tight and pulled up, and Aziraphale was now in danger of biting off his tongue, and pulling off the door handle. His voice ripped through the air in the Bentley like a dull knife, and it was absolutely gorgeous to hear. 

And like Aziraphale before, he began to repeat his actions, and find a rhythm – deeply down, and slowly up. Down, and up, down and up, with more moans, from both, and delicious anticipation... 

He sheathed the tortured member over and over again with his slippery hot mouth, followed along with one hand pumping, tasting more and more salty leaking precome, and smelling sweat… but he didn’t go too quickly. Each stroke up was with his lips carefully pursed, which guaranteed that Aziraphale arched his back and said something unintelligible each time. Each down stroke buried the aching cock in Crowley’s throat for just a second or two, before the whole delectable torture recommenced.

Again and again, both of their eyes glazing over, lost in the indulgence and bliss, finding a rhythm and getting lost in it, lost in each other…

Crowley wondered if this would ever end – he didn’t want it to. He was sure he was hard again and when it was all over, he’d want to get off once more, and then his angel would want to as well, and they’d be stuck in Claygate Common for the rest of the weekend. He imagined for a moment spending days here, in the Bentley, talking, joking, drinking, sucking each other off, until they were caught, or until they both passed out from exhaustion. The satisfying breadth of having a mouthful of throbbing cock, attached to one’s scrumptious love was perhaps all that they’d need…

“Mm… oh?” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Suddenly, starry-eyed, he had begun to orgasm, and could feel himself unleashing waves of heat into Crowley’s mouth. His body had been so high-strung and the sensations had been so blindingly powerful, he hadn’t noticed himself ramping up, and up, and up. 

“Oh… oh… can you… Crowley, I don’t know … I’m so… oh…”

Nearing this delicious climax, perhaps it had felt simply like all the other solid moments of incredible, wall-to-wall electricity, and not like he was ready to burst, but here he was, spurting a load of creamy come between his lover’s lips without any warning. His surprised outbursts eventually became deep, dark groans of satisfaction and vindication.

Crowley had been so wrapped up in his abandoned weekend fantasy, he was taken off guard when a shot of warm, delicious pleasure hit the back of his throat, and his mouth began to fill with cream. It was a terribly satisfying moment, but unexpected – he hadn’t been caught unawares by someone else’s orgasm in centuries.

And so, though he swallowed what he could, he lost a bit of it, and when he let Aziraphale’s cockhead slip from his mouth with a squeak and pop, just a bit of viscous white spatter was rolling down his chin. Absently, he used his sleeve to wipe it away. “Oh angel,” he said. “It’s on your trousers, too.”

“Best laid plans,” Aziraphale panted, his vision finally returning to normal.

“Got that right.”

The former angel took a moment to recover, then he sat up, and instinctively looked about to see if they had been discovered.

No-one was in the vicinity.

“We’re getting better at not making messes,” Crowley said, standing up. His cock had not had a chance to soften before it became tumescent again, but he decided to ignore it, which was something he’d done thousands of times.

Aziraphale noticed, but didn’t say anything… he too realised they could be there for days.

“Crowley, your sleeve,” he whined.

“Don’t worry – I’ll wear my jacket. Ready for a motor show?”

“The what? Oh… oh, yes. The motor show. I had almost forgotten.”

Aziraphale wondered as he rearranged himself into the passenger seat and tucked his softening member back into his trousers, what he would do when Crowley started to get all passionate about the autos. It was bound to make him feel randy again.

Perhaps it was in the cards, after all, to spend the weekend in Claygate Common, satisfying one another, seeking joy, christening the Bentley thoroughly, after all these years.

They dared to dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I MAY have secured some time to write the next few chapters in quick succession... let's see how things go! In the meantime, I could really use some encouragement!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	19. Red and Throbbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley put their lust on the back burner (well, sort of) and join Anathema and Newt at the motor show. Crowley flexes his motorhead muscles, Anathema flexes her psychic muscles, and it all leads Aziraphale into exploring truths he had never honestly contemplated before.
> 
> No smut, and no creature comforts... just Aziraphale being human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1) This chapter was unexpected. I had not outlined it, and truly did not think it was going to turn into a heart-to-heart between Anathema and Aziraphale! But, somewhere, it took a turn and got out of control, in a good way! It goes a bit further in explaining/exploring my personal interpretation of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship. The story touched on it before when they were dealing with the issue at the barbershop but... well, let's just say, Anathema speaks for me in this chapter.
> 
> 2) I did some rudimentary research, and the motor show in Chichester is held earlier in the summer than this story takes place (in fact, the story probably should be into late October or November, at this point, which I hadn’t been considering). I’m also not sure if automobiles are for sale there… we’re going to say they are! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The lusty interlude had to come to an end, alas. They had something of a schedule to keep.

Aziraphale actually bothered to put his bowtie back on as they were pulling out of Claygate Common, and only then began to fret over the droplet on his trousers.

"No-one will notice, angel."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't," Crowley shrugged. "But if anyone does notice, it's because they're looking a little too closely at your groin, and who exactly do you reckon should be more embarrassed in that situation?"

"I suppose you're right," Aziraphale conceded. "Oh, I almost wish we had offered to give our friends a lift to the motor show."

"They're getting an Über, they're fine, and they're visiting Newt's mum. Besides, what would we have done, sent them on a hike while we canoodled in the car?"

"No, of course not! We'd never have…" Aziraphale began, before glancing at Crowley, realising that his companion was joking. "Oh. I see. Silly me."

\-------------------------------------------------------

By the time they arrived at the agreed-upon rendezvous point within the grounds of the motor show in Chichester, they had pulled themselves together. They were back in their jackets, with trousers in order, hair restyled (for whatever that was worth).

"Hey, you two," Anathema said with a smirk. "Nice drive?"

"Yes, splendid," Aziraphale said, uncomfortably. "Thanks for asking."

"Splendid. Hm." She winked at Crowley then, which made him frown at her as if to ask, 'seriously?'

The Chichester Motor Show was a veritable campus of automotive excellence. There were several buildings, each more or less themed, and expansive grassy areas where one could admire the glint of sunlight off a lovingly waxed bonnet.

Crowley walked with Newt through a couple of the buildings showing vintage cars and the two of them discussed, while Anathema and Aziraphale tagged along, watching and listening. What they had seen so far were international luxury brands - Aston Martin, Benz, Cadillac, Ferrari…

"Well, I've got to say," Newt lamented shyly, pushing his glasses up, looking about at the cars in the vicinity. "These all seem a bit much for the likes of me. I'm just a nerdy sort of bloke from Dorking – what would I do with a Ferrari?"

"Make the neighbours green with envy," Crowley answered absently, bent at the waist to inspect the vehicle's hubcaps.

"Anathema, what do you think?" Newt wondered, turning toward his partner.

"I think you should pick whichever…"

Suddenly everyone was distracted because Crowley's hands made a supplicating gesture, and he bent his knees and whined, "Oh, where have you been all my life?" His gaze veered off to his diagonal right at a graphite-coloured, shiny metallic, almost oval-shaped automobile. He began walking toward it, as though it held the secrets of the universe. "I mean apart from the fact that cars haven't existed for the vast majority of it?"

The sign said, 'Porsche 356 Speedster Convertible, 1959.'

"I must admit, it is a striking vehicle," Aziraphale commented.

"Striking?" Crowley asked. "Are you messing with me, are you just being angelic and British?"

"Well… neither of those. It's a striking vehicle, Crowley, what do you want from me?"

"It's bloody gorgeous!" Crowley exclaimed, correcting his companion. "James Bond would've done well to learn a thing or two from this car."

Aziraphale smiled, unable to hold in his delight at the passion Crowley was showing. "I'll take your word for that!"

Crowley was now running a finger over the tablet containing the car's stats. "And look at this: fully restored, by Edwin Avery and his crew – now, there's a man I'd like to have a drink with."

"Who?" Aziraphale asked, even now looking at Anathema and Newt for help. They both shrugged, and watched with fascination and confusion.

To be specific, Newt watched Crowley, as the former demon had become his role model for "cool," and he had internally begun a secret plan to phase in his own take on Crowley's look and manner over the next few months… not that he would admit that in a million years.

But Anathema watched Aziraphale, with a great deal of amusement.

Crowley was now in his own world, though he continued talking to Aziraphale… or Newt, or whoever would listen. He circled around it, the way he sometimes circled around his angelic partner, mostly in the old days: sizing-up, coveting, knowing. "Replicas of this car have become ridiculously popular the last twenty years or so, but this… this is the real thing. You can tell by the grille – wish I could touch it."

Aziraphale looked at the grille of the car, but had no idea how one would know a replica from an original by looking at it. "I'll take your word for that, too," he said, with a little chuckle.

"It takes curves like it's on rails – or so I'm told. Erwin Komenda was an artist and a genius. Because this… this big silver gem is not just sexy, but it's a marvel of physics, as well!"

"Komenda, he's the designer?"

"Yep. And, the history of this model is fascinating – have you ever heard the phrase Karmann Notchback?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said lightly. "I've done loads of reading about sports cars over the years. I'm practically an expert. Also rugby, and the iPhone."

"Shut up, you," Crowley scolded, more playfully than not, then launched into a story/explanation of the Karmann Notchback, and Aziraphale, while not caring a whit about the story, delighted in hearing Crowley's effusive description.

The four of them drifted away from the Speedster, and Crowley led. Anathema leaned over and said to Newt, "They are freaking adorable, aren't they?"

"Erm, yeah. I suppose."

\----------------------------------------------

Crowley was just finishing up his Notchback discourse as the four of them wandered into the next building, which Crowley had chosen because it was exhibiting vintage models of classic American cars, of more common makes. Ford, Chevrolet, Chrysler and the like.

"Well, Newt, if you don't want a Ferrari or a Porsche…" he said, gesturing around, admiring.

"Now, this is more my speed!" Newt exclaimed, rushing toward a pale blue1969 Chevrolet Camaro, with two wide black stripes on the bonnet. "I mean, it's still a muscle car, but at least it's common like me."

Crowley smiled broadly and admitted, "Yeah, I could see you in that."

And while the two of them began to spiral into the world of Chevrolet, Anathema sidled up close to Aziraphale.

"It turns you on when Crowley talks about cars," she said, discreetly.

It took Aziraphale completely off-guard and his head snapped to the side, to look at her with shock. Then, he smiled nervously, then stuttered, "T-turns me, erm…what?"

"Turns you on. Makes you feel aroused. Randy. Like you want to…"

"Wh-what? That's absurd! Why ever would you say a thing like that, Anathema? I mean, what w-would make you think…"

She began to laugh. "Auras don't lie, my friend," she whispered leaning in even closer. She took his arm, and pointed at a woman across the room. "See her? Her aura is completely grey. Of course, it doesn't take a psychic to see that she's bored out of her mind. Her husband, or whoever that guy is with her, his is a bright yellow, which means he's happy - obviously completely oblivious to her. And that guy on the other side, circling around the bright red car? I'm guessing he's planning to write about the car, or paint it, or something, because his aura is purple, which means he's immersed in a soup of creativity! Crowley's aura is something similar to the guy with the bored wife – he feels in his element here, happy and fascinated. Newt, he's got a man-crush on Crowley, so he's oscillating between yellow, green, and teal. Insecurity is in there somewhere."

"A man-crush?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's when a straight guy really admires another guy. Or is captivated by him in some way. Is eager to spend time with him, and maybe even wants to be him. No real sexual interest, just… you know…"

"Interesting," Aziraphale said with a slight smile, looking Newt over, and studying the way he was reacting to Crowley's discourse over the car. "Well, I can't say that I'm exactly an objective party, but I must say, I cannot blame Newt one bit."

"Indeed, not. Because your aura has been burning red since we arrived here, and it throbs when Crowley talks about cars."

"Throbs?"

"Yes, throbs. Like a…"

"I know what 'throbs' means, thanks."

"Which means your engine is revving high today, since you two must've had sex on the way down here."

Aziraphale gasped and stepped away from her. "Anathema!"

Crowley and Newt looked up from what they were doing, which was something to do with the plaque, explaining the car's stats.

Aziraphale smiled at them, and said, "Sorry. She told a funny joke. Funny funny!" When they went back to their task, he turned to Anathema and scolded, in a whisper, "Really! How vulgar!"

"Okay, sorry," she whispered back. "But tell me I'm wrong."

"We most definitely did not have sex on the way down here!" He mouthed the words 'have sex', refusing even to whisper them.

She smiled. "You're lying. Your aura is darkening."

"I'm not lying!"

"Then you're omitting the truth, or speaking on a technicality, or something like that. Whatever. It's none of my business," she said lightly. "Sorry I brought it up."

"That's all right," he said, and the two of them went back to observing their partners. After about thirty seconds, he whispered, "As a matter purely of curiosity, how did you… I mean, what made you think… you know?"

"Red on someone's aura usually – though not always – means sexual arousal or anger. As both of those things abate, they tend to fade into pink. But sex brings with it a literal afterglow, a buzzing corona of sparkling gold that starts to form after orgasm, and ebbs away over the next couple of hours."

"And we were both pink and gold when we got out of the car," he assumed, reluctantly.

"Yep."

"Very clever. How do you know it wasn't this morning, before leaving the flat?"

"The strength of the glow. It would have had to have been in the previous hour. London's too far away."

"I see."

"So where was it? Claygate Common?"

"Yes. And technically, we didn't… we just… Now, hold on a moment! What do you know about Claygate Common, young lady?"

Anathema shrugged. "When we passed it on the motorway, Newt told me about it as a dogging site. He grew up in that area. Of course, before me, he had never… never, erm… you know what? I should probably just stop talking."

Aziraphale smiled sympathetically. "I understand. It wasn't until after the Apocalypse that I… well…"

"Really?"

"Really. And I'm a right sight older than your Newt."

"Sweetie?" Anathema called out to Newt. "We're going to go over to that seating area there, okay?"

"Yeah, all right," Newt called back.

"We'll come get you when we've decided," Crowley said.

"When WE have decided," Anathema muttered. "Okay, whatever."

She took Aziraphale's arm again, and they walked over to a round patch of carpet where there was a crescent-shaped settee, and two armchairs facing it. They both sat down on the sofa, now out of earshot of their two car-enthusiasts (even if one of them had only very recently become one).

"Oh, that's much better," Aziraphale said, settling into the sofa.

"Although, your throb has gone, and the red is fading to orange," Anathema pointed out.

"Well, I can't very well carry on standing there being all… red and throbbing, whilst you watch."

"Speaking of throbbing, six thousand years is a long bout of abstinence. Is it easier for an angel, than for a human?"

"No," he confessed. "The only advantage I had back then, that I don't have now, was excellent motivation to avoid temptation. Well, as Crowley might say, I bollocksed that up nineteen ways from Sunday, in the form of food and alcohol and overall snobbery."

"You gotta live, man."

"But, with the pleasures of the flesh, I managed to keep it all under a lid of sorts. Mostly because my strongest desire was to try it on with someone who was literally meant to be the enemy. I lived in a state of dense denial. Because, dear girl, the consequences for consorting with a demon…" Aziraphale shuddered.

"What would they have done to you?"

"They tried (and obviously failed) to execute us after the Apocalypse, and I don't think it was just for thwarting a plan that God could put back into motion any time She so chose."

"You think they tried to destroy you over your relationship with Crowley? And Crowley for his relationship with you?"

"The more I think about it, yes."

"Well, you pulled the wool over their eyes for how long? They were bound to be pissed off."

"And they were."

"So, segueing from persecution for loving Crowley, let me ask you something," Anathema said. "How are you finding life in the twenty-first century, as not just human, but a gay man?"

He was surprised by the question. Then his body language closed off and he frowned. "Anathema, I…"

"Come on, now. I've talked to you guys plenty about being human. I've answered some embarrassing questions, about mysterious stains, olive oil, untold body aches, et cetera, et cetera."

"The olive oil was…"

"I can guess why it got all over your clothes," she interrupted. "And I don't think it was your fabulous Tuscan cooking. And for the record, I think you guys would do well to find yourselves a good dermatologist."

"Oh dear…"

"See? You've had me to talk about my experience as a human. So, you can talk to me about your particular humanity. Or, lack thereof. Obviously, through Newt's eyes, and even through mine, which are a bit broader than his, you, Aziraphale, or whatever your human name is, appear to be a gay man."

"Yes," Aziraphale gave a nod.

"So? Is that not what you are?"

He thought about it with wide-eyes for a moment, then said, "Well, I certainly have all the trappings, don't I?"

"More or less," she agreed.

"People have assumed it about me for the past, oh, two or three hundred years. And I have never corrected them. Never saw the need."

"And you've loved Crowley, desired him, for how long?

He sighed. "I really couldn't say. I became aware of it, in a way I couldn't suppress, nigh on eighty years ago. But there were hints of it all the way back in Ancient Rome. Probably before. Crowley has more of an accurate chronicle of his feelings, as he was never in denial about them."

"Wow. Two thousand years or more. That's hard to even get my puny human mind around."

"Your human mind is anything but puny, my dear."

"I guess I've wondered about this ever since I met you and Crowley. Were you a male angel, and was he a male demon? Or did you both just sort of exist beyond labels like that? Beyond classification? Maybe you were shapeless at some point. Or, you walked around in humanoid forms, but with no gender, only fleshy bodies that could feel love and lust, and you both happened to be male-shaped creatures?"

"I suppose that's about the size of it," he agreed. "I was sent to Earth to guard the Eastern Gates of Eden, and I was given corporeal form, as it is the only way to navigate this plane of existence efficiently. The Almighty made me atoms, molecules, flesh, bones, hair, nerves and blood. Then, the humans came along and I suppose at some point I noticed that I had more in common with Adam than Eve. Anatomically of course – flatter chest, genitalia, narrower hips, larger stature. But also a deeper voice, and a level of physical strength that was much more similar to his than hers. I suppose that's all it was, to my way of thinking back then – more like Adam, less like Eve, and that was it. It wasn't until much later that I began to think of myself in terms of gender."

"And Crowley?"

"Well, I can't speak for him, but I would imagine the process was similar. He was an angel at first, then things happened, and he…"

"Fell?"

"He sauntered vaguely downwards, yes, and became a demon. All demons have an animal familiar, except Crowley became an animal familiar – his own familiar. So, he could change form at will – serpentine, or humanoid."

"Oh! Is that why he had the yellow eyes before?"

"Yes. And he was sent to Eden as well, as a foil to the Almighty's work. He was the snake who tempted Eve to eat the apple, and he was tempting people for six thousand years thereafter. Well, people and angels."

"He was the Serpent of Eden? You mean he's responsible for thousands of years of institutionalized misogyny?"

"Er… erm… yes. But he's always felt really badly about it. He didn't mean for things to go that way, and he certainly didn't see what would happen after the story got written down. As a demon, he was definitely an equal-opportunity havoc-wreaker, never preferring to muck about, for better or worse, with one sex over the other. He's always said that Adam could've just as easily been tempted, it's just that he was asleep when Crowley got there."

"Well, that's good to know," Anathema said, flatly.

"But I suppose, when he took corporeal form, his thoughts might have been something similar," he said. Then, he adopted an accent and cadence that resembled Crowley's. "'Well, I'm taller than Eve, less curvy, my voice is deeper, and my naughty bits are more embarrassing.' And then as years pass, he begins to think of himself as male. But honestly, you'd have to ask him."

"Huh. Wow. This is all fascinating."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "We're both clearly men now. We're humans, registered with the council as adult male subjects of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And, as it happens, Crowley and I had a discussion about a week and a half ago, concerning whether we both prefer men over women."

"And?"

"My conclusion was that... well, I don't actually know. But if I had to make a statement on the topic, I'd say it's not about masculine or feminine, it's about Crowley. If the demon had been wrought as female, or hermaphrodite, or as half-snake-half-sheep, or a talking plant, and wandered the Earth for six thousand years as my friend, adversary, and everything else Crowley has been to me, I would have fallen in love with her-slash-them-slash-it," Aziraphale said, with unevenly squinted eyes, suggesting deep thought, and startling revelations. "So, in that sense, I don't consider myself to be a homosexual."

"You're a… Crowleysexual."

He smiled whimsically. "I suppose so!"

"That's beautiful."

"I would agree," Aziraphale said, contentedly.

"And the fact that he happens to be gorgeous..."

"Well, I suppose I just got lucky, in that respect," Aziraphale commented, timidly, blushing a bit.

"Mm-hm," she said, a bit sardonically, suppressing a giggle.

Aziraphale sighed, and contemplated again. "But given that I'm a man, and he's a man, and we're in a loving, carnal relationship with one another, society sees me as a gay man. And I live in this society now, don't I?"

"You do. But don't let it label you."

"I don't mind the label," he shrugged. "It's a label that I like. It's one that fits. One that comes to me through love, and that I choose to embrace. Unlike the label of Principality, or Servant of God, both of which were foisted upon me."

"What was Crowley's conclusion in that conversation?"

"At first he wasn't sure, because, as I've said, he was an equal-opportunity havoc-wreaker. He notices both men and women, and claimed to enjoy them both. But as we talked, he seemed to realise that he does prefer men, if only because they are stronger. And…"

"And?" she asked, as Aziraphale trailed off.

"And… rougher," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "Not that I'm exactly a beast, mind you."

"But you're strong – I've seen it first-hand," she said. She looked about, then said, "Don't tell Newt, but I've been with my share of both sexes as well, and in the end, I prefer men, for similar reasons."

"Your secret is safe with me," Aziraphale said, then he chuckled naughtily.

"It's too bad you could never tell your story," Anathema commented. "Your love story that spans millennia, and exists in spite of some gender-transcendentalism, could be inspiring to the LGBTQ community, and to its allies. Even to its opponents."

"Oh, I have no desire to get political."

"So, I have another question."

"Yes?"

"What is it about Crowley's professor-of-the-motor-show thing that gets you all hot and bothered?"

________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale tried his best to explain to Anathema how and why his aura appeared red and throbbing whenever Crowley talked motor-show-ese, and how it had nothing to do with cars. He felt he didn't do a very good job of explaining, though at the same time, wondered why he cared. What was it about Anathema that made him want to divulge? Was it simply because she had helped them so much in learning about their humanity? Or perhaps the fact that she seemed to be able to see the truth eventually, anyway?

Sometime after that, Crowley and Newt found them, and announced that they had notified a sales associate of an intention to buy the light-blue Camaro, and that he'd be back with the paperwork momentarily.

"Okay, cool," Anathema said, standing up. She walked up to Crowley, took his hand, stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and said, "Thank you for helping Newt choose the right thing. You're a gem. I mean that. Both of you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been hearing CRICKETS when I post a chapter lately! 
> 
> Let me know you're out there! Comments are soooooo appreciated, and motivate me to no end! Thanks for reading!


	20. Our Cups Runneth Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a heart-to-heart in the previous chapter with Anathema on love, patience, and sexuality in supernatural beings, as well as Aziraphale/Crowley's very telling aura...
> 
> Aziraphale expounds on rock music, and Crowley apologises for ruining the world. Aziraphale practically brims with lust and Crowley gets a very nice surprise when they get home. :-) Read: a bit of smut.
> 
> Oh, and this chapter sets up two more creature comforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t usually do this, but I would like to recommend a video to you. On YouTube, there is an absolutely lovely animatic (I think that’s what it’s called) – a montage of mostly still, hand-drawn, comic-book-like images of Crowley and Aziraphale, set to the song, “Devil’s Backbone.” It’s a beautiful song in the first place, but with a man’s voice, and in the context of Aziraphale’s particular plight, the pain and intimacy portrayed in it will make you ache! Please check it out!
> 
> Regarding this chapter: the smut might seem unnecessary, and I'll admit it was unplanned and just sort of came out of nowhere. I took that as a sigh that it "felt right" after the motor show, and the day they've had. I hope you'll agree. :-)
> 
> Enjoy!

Aziraphale tried his best to explain to Anathema how and why his aura appeared red and throbbing whenever Crowley talked motor-show-ese, and how it had nothing to do with cars. He felt he didn't do a very good job of explaining, though at the same time, wondered why he cared. What was it about Anathema that made him want to divulge? Was it simply because she had helped them so much in learning about their humanity? Or perhaps the fact that she seemed to be able to see the truth eventually, anyway?

Sometime after that, Crowley and Newt found them, and announced that they had notified a sales associate of an intention to buy the light-blue Camaro, and that he'd be back with the paperwork momentarily.

"Okay, cool," Anathema said, standing up. She walked up to Crowley, took his hand, stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and said, "Thank you for helping Newt choose the right thing. You're a gem. I mean that. Both of you are."

“Thanks,” he said, charmed by her as usual, but also a bit confused. She now took Newt’s hand and they walked away together, to stand by the car and wait for the associate to return with paperwork. Crowley said, with a big smile, “She thinks I’m a gem. No one has ever said that to me before.”

“I think you’re a gem," Aziraphale offered lightly.

“Too little, too late,” Crowley joked.

“You know, Crowley, you should acknowledge what high praise that is, coming from her, considering she blames you for all institutionalised misogyny since the beginning of time.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. “I… I… I’ve said I was sorry like a billion times!”

“I know. I’ve heard the story. Adam was asleep,” Aziraphale said with a smile. 

“It’s true. I was on a schedule! I couldn’t bloody well wait for him to open his eyes after the sun had already reached its pinnacle in the sky, now could I? But Eve, she was an early-riser. And humankind would have been just as buggered if it had been him tempting her!”

“Crowley, I know – I was there, remember? Anyway, I told Anathema that – well, the thing about Adam sleeping – and also pointed out that you’re not responsible for how the humans interpreted it, and chose to apply it, once the story got written and distributed.”

“You did? Because no part of me wants…”

“I know,” Aziraphale lulled. He patted the cushion to his left, inviting his companion to sit. Crowley did, and Aziraphale spoke. "As you have probably already guessed, she and I have been having quite a frank discussion. Mostly about you, and how I feel about you. I think that knowing what she knows now, she feels quite close to you. I’d guess that she’s already forgiven you.”

“How you feel about me? Well, that’s quite the personal topic, for the likes of you, angel.”

“She read my aura. What she found was somewhat embarrassing. But she reminded me of all of the times she’s answered our disquieting questions about being human, which was very effective in coercing me into answering hers.”

“And what did your aura say? That you’re barely holding your burning desires at bay when you’re near me?” Crowley asked whimsically.

“Essentially, yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “She may have used the phrase, ‘burning red and throbbing.’"

Crowley laughed out loud.

"Referring to my aura, not… anything else," Aziraphale corrected frantically. 

Crowley moved a bit closer to his partner. He put his arm round the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale, and leaned in to whisper, “So, my showing-off is working, then.”

“I should say so,” Aziraphale answered, shifting a bit, with the onslaught of hot breath and innuendo in his ear.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m doing it to help Newt, and I think he’s paying attention.”

“He most definitely is. Anathema used an expression... something like, Newt has a non-sexual infatuation with you."

"A man-crush? Well, yeah, that's pretty bleeding obvious," Crowley said flippantly. “But no matter why I’m doing it - this impassioned art-connoisseur gearhead routine (which is actually totally genuine)… well, it’s the whole reason you’re here, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. You should know as well, Anathema also knew about the episode in Claygate Common on the way down here.”

“I imagine she did. Something like that has got to show up on one’s aura.”

“Evidently it does.”

Crowley smiled, and laid his head back for a moment. He could hear the Rolling Stones playing over the sound system. “Tell me, what would happen if a Queen song came on right now?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and imagined he could hear the phrase, ‘Ooh, you’re making me live! Whatever this world can give to me…’

“I would feel well and truly immersed in you, even more than usual.”

“And if I asked you to accompany me to a toilet cubicle to… get immersed?”

“I suppose I would have no choice,” Aziraphale breathed.

“I wonder if the deejay takes requests.”

“Crowley.” It was a gentle scold. 

The two of them sat in silence for about a minute, and then Aziraphale said, “You know, it’s not just you and the Bentley that make Queen rather an exception to my non-liking-of-modern-music rule.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, with interest, moving slightly away, so as to be able to turn and talk more effectively.

“Freddie Mercury, it must be acknowledged, had a voice worthy of the West End.”

“I would agree with that.”

“He was a strong lyric tenor if I ever heard one. And I always found their music rather more meticulously-rendered than any other rock ‘n’ roll I’ve ever heard.”

“Meticulously-rendered?”

“Their harmonies remind me a bit of Barbershop Quartet, which takes a decidedly taut understanding of melodic intervals, not to mention an excellent ear.”

“Interesting,” Crowley cooed. “Do go on!”

“Their arrangements are somehow symphonic, or seem to lend themselves to a symphonic absorption by a trained ear, if you will – that would be me, of course. And if nothing else, the melodies do stick with you.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, shifting positions so as to lay his ankle across his opposite knee. “Would you be interested in a Queen cover band?”

“What is a cover band?”

“Cover bands are groups of people who tour around in costume, playing the music of famous, classic bands. Like Queen, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin... They try to sound as much as they can like the band in its heyday, and replicate the experience of seeing them. It can be a laugh.”

Aziraphale smiled. “What a brilliant idea, given that the band is no longer touring, and the principal singer is, in fact, deceased. Brilliant, that is, if they are competent musicians.”

“The band is called Seen Queen. The front-man – or the principal singer, as you call it – sang with Saddler’s Wells Opera for a season and a half. He was in the chorus, but still. One of the guitarists is also a Suzuki-trained cellist, who participated in a Yo-Yo Ma masterclass.”

“Well, you have to be fairly elite to do that.”

“I know.”

“You need a recommendation from a tenured music professor at a leading university.”

“So it’s safe to assume they’re competent musicians. What do you say?”

“I’ll give it a go,” Aziraphale said, with a smile.

Crowley smiled in kind. “Excellent!”

“On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“The London Philharmonic is performing Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring’ this Thursday night. I’d like you to accompany me.”

Crowley smirked. “Fair enough.”

“The ballet is not being mounted, just the symphonic piece.”

“I don’t care,” Crowley shrugged. “Ballet, I could take or leave.”

“Lovely, it’s a deal, then,” Aziraphale said, delightedly. “Music, as you know, has always been a great comfort to me.”

“And to me.”

“A creature comfort I suppose? Given that humans have been driven to produce it, and other types of art, as a way of keeping civilisation alive, a way of keeping sanity about the human animal, almost. It’s like it seeps from their pores – the rhythm, the need to dance and sing…”

Crowley sighed. “And angels and demons are generally immune to its charms. Except for those of us who bothered to keep an open ear and mind. Actually, I take that back. They do have the occasional dance party in Hell. But it’s hideous.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Hideous how?”

“What do you mean 'how'? It’s a dance party… in Hell. The music is awful, as is the dancing, and…” Crowley let air escape through his lips in lieu of continuing. 

Aziraphale giggled again. There was a long pause while the two of them sat again, comfortably without talking for a couple of minutes. Then, Aziraphale broke the silence. “I suppose it’s time we shared music with each other. Perhaps someday I can find out what a Velvet Underground is.”

“Well, I’d probably have to get you drunk first, but okay.”

Aziraphale stared off into the middle distance for a few moments, then said, “Pity we never went to a performance together back when what is now called ‘classical’ music was the popular music. Back when we actually shared taste.”

“Yeah, that is a pity. I heard ‘Rite of Spring’ in Paris in 1913.”

“No! So did I!”

“It was very controversial. A very primal piece of music – I remember women in the audience fanning themselves, including the socialite I was with. And her girlfriend. And as a demon, I recall feeling rather chuffed that I didn’t have to do any tempting – the rough, pounding, insistent music had done the job for me.”

“I can imagine.”

“Parts of it get under your skin… you can feel it in your bones.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding his head gravely. “Do you know, I had the same thought on the way down here when we were listening to ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’”

“It’s something that all good music has in common, I think.”

“I think you’re correct about that, my love.”

\----------------------------------------------

Newt drove a newly-restored Camaro out of the building toward the west gate of the motor show. The steering wheel was oriented like that of most cars driven outside of Britain, so he very quickly got flummoxed and had to ask his American girlfriend to drive, with the promise that he’d get the hang of it.

“It’s not like it’s a digital clock or something,” he joked.

She rolled her eyes, and pulled into traffic.

But before leaving Chichester, they had been invited to a Queen cover band and to the London Philharmonic to hear sometime-controversial Stravinsky music. Newt liked Queen well enough, and had got the distinct impression that Crowley was more than just a casual fan of theirs, and so he enthusiastically accepted for the both of them. Anathema was fired-up about ‘Rite of Spring,’ calling it a “pagan anthem,” and claiming to feel kindred with the piece.

For their part, the formerly supernatural beings did not indulge in any more sexual coups in the car on the way back to London. 

They saved it for home.

Aziraphale’s bodily desires had been teeming for most of the day, even with their cathartic stop in Claygate Common. A whole new soup of sexual energy had been churning within him since arriving in Chichester, what with Crowley’s automotive discourse and the ride home in the Bentley. The closer they’d got to London, the more tightly-wound he was feeling.

Case in point, they passed the first quarter of an hour after closing the door to the flat, just there, in the foyer, without even turning on the lights. Aziraphale spent the time on his knees, and Crowley with his back against the door, more surprised than he had been in a long, long time, being pleasured into a helpless stupor. 

Aziraphale, having learned his lesson about self-control (namely, that attempting too much of it generally caused him to orgasm before he could get out of his pants), unbuttoned his own trousers and serviced himself with his right hand. He sucked his lover’s swollen cock with the same rhythm as he stroked himself off, and moaned, as Crowley often said, like a slut, as he did so.

His nimble tongue, tight lips and teeth, and skilled hands ensured that for the second time that day, Crowley went cross-eyed with sensation, and shot a torrent of thick cream into his throat. And also that he himself splattered the doormat (and the door, just a little) with his own gratifying release.

Complete thoughts became nebulous mush, and even guttural expletives died limply on Crowley’s tongue.

And when they were finished, Aziraphale sat back on his heels, licked his lips delectably steadied himself and asked, “Wine?”

Crowley gave a harried laugh, and asked in kind, “Wine? That’s all you have to say? After doing THAT to my Egyptian throw rug?”

“What on Earth else is there to say?”

Crowley laughed again in a somewhat exhausted manner, then said, “I dunno, angel. You’ve truly surprised me… I’m still… well, I don’t know what to say.”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently and stood up. He leaned against his lover, their exposed, waning erections pressing together. He kissed the long, sweaty neck just below the ear, and whispered. “You wound me up. You saw to it that I'd feel the need to devour you... with my mouth, and perhaps later, other parts.”

“Jesus, Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed.

“I’m a pleasure-seeker and a quick learner. When are you going to stop being so shocked at what an insatiable bastard I can be?” He batted his eyelashes as he took a step back.

“I hope never.”

“As do I. So, wine?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it. Meet you in the bedroom.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, sceptically.

“Sure, I…” said Crowley, standing up straight. He quickly realised he was a bit shaky on his pins, and his hands were unsteady. “Okay – point taken. You get it. I’ll have a lie-down and try to convalesce.”

“Good man,” Aziraphale said, standing, and heading for the kitchen.

\---------------------------------------------------

By the time Aziraphale arrived in the bedroom with a bottle and a corkscrew, Crowley had already stripped off most of his clothes, and was lying on the bed in his pants, still breathing a bit heavily.

Aziraphale stopped and admired for a few moments, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and began to twist in the corkscrew. As he did, he rather absently hummed ‘You’re My Best Friend.” Crowley smiled.

The cork popped out and Aziraphale took a sip straight out of the bottle, and handed it to his partner, who did the same. He kept on humming, and stood up to get out of his clothes as well. First the jacket, then the waistcoat, followed by the bowtie. Crowley watched, and drank.

“Don’t go too far with the wine, Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. “You know what happens when…”

“I know, I know,” Crowley practically spat. There were times when he really missed being a supernatural being, and the instances when he had to think about limiting his alcohol intake was high on that list. He continued to watch with interest as clothes hit the floor. Then he said, “You know, it occurs to me, angel…”

“Yes?”

“Well, no offence, but if you dress like that at a Queen cover band concert, well… you and I might have to sit in separate rows.”

Aziraphale stopped what he was doing and stared at Crowley flatly. “That’s a nice way to talk to someone you love.”

“Sorry, but you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I usually do. I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“I know, but… you and I have both agreed to get a little bit out of our comfort zones. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll concert – why not dress the part?”

“I suppose there’s a certain logic to that.”

“It’s not the sort of place where you want to show up looking like an English dandy from 1854. I mean, not that anyone would get weird about it, it just wouldn’t be… appropriate. People might take you for some sort of cosplayer.”

“I’ll have to take your word,” Aziraphale commented, now getting out of his shirt.

“Besides, I quite fancy the idea of… dressing you.”

“Dressing me?”

Crowley smiled. “We share clothes as a creature comfort as well, don’t we? I love style, I love fashion, I love cool. And… I love you. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if…” And then he looked Aziraphale over, slowly, hungrily.

“In that case, Crowley, I might as well tell you, I feel that your usual manner of dress would not do at all at a performance of the London Philharmonic. I don’t think you’re bound to find anyone else there in leather trousers.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Now now,” Aziraphale scolded, stepping out of his trousers. He moved forward and joined Crowley on the bed, taking the wine, and swigging from it. “A refined evening of symphonic music calls for refined dress. And I know you love your high-end trendy brands and whatnot, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Okay, what do you propose?”

They were now both lying on their sides facing each other. “I’d like to buy you a suit,” Aziraphale said delightedly. “How long’s it been since you’ve worn one?”

“I dunno… seventy years?”

Aziraphale ran a hand down over Crowley’s bare chest and shivered, keeping his eyes on his lover’s body, and on the waistband of his Calvin Klein underwear. “Yes, I think… something well-tailored, fitted. Very twenty-first century of course – I wouldn’t ask you to wear what I wear.”

Crowley smirked. “All right. Let’s spend the day at Harrod’s someday soon.”

“A capital plan.”

\------------------------------------------

The rest of the evening was spent very much this way – bed, wine, and occasionally Crowley played music on his phone – both classical and rock, and the two of them discussed. 

And after enough time had passed, and when the mood struck again, they found themselves deliciously tangling lips and tongues. They got out of what scant clothes they were wearing, and formed an even more delicious tangle of arms, legs, hands, and moans. Aziraphale had already announced a desire to devour Crowley with "other parts” than his mouth…

“Tell me what you want,” Crowley panted, between wet kisses, as they became desperate.

Aziraphale pulled away and began to position himself on his hands and knees. “Get thee behind me, foul fiend.”

“Oh,” Crowley moaned. “I fucking love you.”

Crowley did as asked, got up on his knees and spent a bit of time licking the tight pink hole in front of him. He probed it with his tongue, throwing Aziraphale into ‘slut’ mode again, with groans, filthy language, and begging. Then Crowley stretched the puckered opening with his fingers, using a proper lubricant this time.

Eventually, hearing his lover beg to be fucked sent him over the edge. With a shaking hand, he drizzled more lube between the perfect round arse cheeks and into the hungry, readied hole, before sinking his hard oozing dick in with a grunt. Aziraphale, dropping his head lazily forward, groaned, “Oh yes. This is what I’ve been wanting – needing – all day."

"To get filled?"

"Mm, filled by you," Aziraphale moaned, wriggling his backside just a bit.

“Bright red and throbbing?”

“Positively swimming in the bright red and throbbing!”

Crowley began pounding that tight hole and held nothing back. He wrapped his hands around fleshy hips and pulled them back over and over, impaling the incredibly sweet, sometimes demanding, insatiable angel of a man before him with impunity, fucking him hard, grunting, hissing. Every little bit of tension and control, such as it was, was destroyed. Destroyed… in big slippery crashes and loud slaps of flesh.

Both men cursed. Saw stars. Moaned each other’s names. And they did it all again and again until they both came. Hard. Aziraphale heard a deep, visceral groan, and began to feel the telltale pulsations of warm, slick pleasure being loosed into him. This pushed him right past his breaking point. Another creamy mess spurted all over, mucking up another bedspread…

And they both fell to the side when they were finished, panting as though they’d run a marathon.

For Crowley, there was laughter, which, as usual, set Aziraphale giggling as well.

They held hands for a few moments until catching their breath.

“Do you know what, Crowley?”

“Mm?” Crowley mused, on the verge of sleep.

“You might think me a tad pernickety for saying so…”

“No!” Crowley joked. “No way.”

“But tomorrow is Sunday, we have nothing in particular to do, unless we choose to, and I think it would be nice to have a good lying-in. Maybe some Mimosas in bed. Perhaps gravlax on bagels. Fresh melon…”

“That sounds great,” Crowley slurred.

“But I would not like to wake up to an empty wine bottle sideways on the nightstand, a stained duvet, and clothes strewn all over the floor. I know it’s been quite a lovely night for the two of us, but…”

“Seriously? You want to tidy up before falling asleep?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I propose we move across the hall to the other bedroom. We shall wake up to lighter tones, a tidy room, and clean bedclothes.”

Crowley sat up and looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “What if you wake with another bout of morning wood?”

“Then we’ll bungle it all up, but after we’ve awakened and appreciated the tableau.”

With that Aziraphale, in splendid nakedness, stood up, and held out his hand. Crowley took it, and allowed himself to be helped to a standing position. For a moment, they stood and locked lips, but then Aziraphale led them out the door. They shut off the lights in Crowley’s bedroom, crawled between cool, untouched sheets across the hall, and dozed off soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, as usual, I'm plugging for comments! I have had to post this chapter THREE TIMES because I kept getting cut off, losing the data, etc. It's been fairly frustrating.
> 
> Silence is the worst thing for a writer - please let me know you're out there, and that the effort I've put into getting time to write, as well as just getting this damn thing posted, has been worthwhile. :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	21. Modern Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffable pair have already described to one another their respective versions of the creature comfort that is music - inevitable to the human spirit, but merely pleasurable for a supernatural being - and have agreed to experience the live versions of both, together. Each partner has also requested that the other alter his wardrobe somewhat, for the occasions in question. 
> 
> So this chapter is mostly about clothes. And a little bit about Crowley's general hotness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to start winding this story down quite soon, though I'm having difficulty with the outline. In the next chapter or two, I'll have some questions for you, the readers, about how you'd like to see the rest of the story go. (How much smut, where and why, etc. You know, the important things in life.) So, stay tuned for that!
> 
> Enjoy!

Tuesday morning, a gawky-looking young man, probably no more than seventeen years old, turned up at the flat with a laundry cart. He’d come from a nearby collect-and-drop-off dry cleaner, and was there to pick up a large pile of clothing and blankets. He thanked “Mr. Fell,” and gave a promise to have everything back by the end of the week. 

Aziraphale handed him a separate bag – a large leather duffel, containing the trousers, waistcoat, and overcoat of two full suits, neatly folded. “I’ve spoken with your employer about these,” Aziraphale said to the adolescent, earnestly. “These garments are over one hundred and fifty years old, and need to be treated with special care.”

“Right. He told me about that. Don’t worry, sir – we have special processes for vintage items.”

“Just make sure that you don’t add them to the general… pile,” Aziraphale reminded him, looking into the laundry cart with distaste.

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Thank you for your attention to detail, young man,” Aziraphale said, holding out his hand.

The kid shook it, chuckled, then turned back toward the lift.

Aziraphale watched him walk away with some their favourite items – not just Aziraphale’s Victorian suits, but also satin pyjamas, expensive bedclothes, and Crowley’s leather trousers and silk shirts. He sighed wistfully, knowing the items would probably be all right, but trusting strange humans with their belongings was quite difficult. For the hundredth time that month, he resolved to be more careful with… well, all things that can stain clothing. Especially olive oil – that, weirdly, was the most embarrassing one.

He then went back inside the flat, stripped Crowley’s bed and stuffed the charcoal-grey sheets into the washing machine, along with some detergent, and ran it. He had been getting the hang of the apparatus, and was rather proud to have produced three dozen pairs of clean socks the previous week, all on his own. Crowley had managed to keep both of them in clean shirts and pants, plus bath towels.

He thought it a tad ironic that today was a day when he was sending off their usual clothing to be cleaned, and they would be bringing new togs into the flat. A day of heavy clothes-handling.

The plan was that he and Crowley were to have lunch in a while, then spend the rest of the afternoon at Harrod’s, essentially dressing each other. Aziraphale hadn’t quite known what to expect, upon suggesting that his companion wear a suit to the symphony. Over the years, he had seen Crowley in a suit more than a few times, but he did bear in mind that suits had been considered the epitome of “cool” at different points in history. Crowley’s twenty-first-century brand of cool, however, had more to do with counter-culture and hipster chic than with appearing wealthy and respectable and/or looking like a mobster.

The twentieth and twenty-first centuries had been so rapidly-changing, so fickle, so clear about what they’d left behind, that Aziraphale had almost forgotten: for most of history, he himself had been quite fashionable. He had been particularly fond of the clothes seen as stylish in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He had loved the brocaded coats and britches, chemises and cravats of the 1700s, which he was aware, were the attire of the aristocracy (and it had almost got him decapitated and discorporated in France). These gave way to Victorian waistcoats, tails, and bowties. 

The nineteenth century had been the last time when his and Crowley’s tastes had coincided – the clothes, the music, the general aesthetic of the era, but Crowley’s proclivities had moved on with the times. Aziraphale’s had not. He forever maintained a neat, put-together appearance, but had stalled out around 1890. He had been aware of style marching forward without him, but he just couldn’t quite bring himself to begin wearing the fedora, the modern necktie, or dungarees, or God forbid, shorts, in the twentieth century. He had never quite understood why, though had grown more or less comfortable with this particular quirk.

Though today, he wondered if he had hung onto his nineteenth-century bent because men's suits had turned boring and dark in the early twentieth century, and he remained nostalgic for time when his taste jibed with Crowley’s. Perhaps he had been, for the past thirteen decades, fooling himself into thinking that Crowley still fancied that style of dress, even though he had made amply clear, over the years, that he found Aziraphale’s fashion sense backwards (if adorable, and inextricably part of him).

But because Crowley was adaptable, he had accepted the idea of wearing a suit with his usual insouciance, while it was Aziraphale, set in his ways, who was nervous about being restyled for a popular music event. He felt sure that his partner would not choose something that might cause him to humiliate himself, but still, stepping outside his creature comfort zone for the first time in over a century was nothing to sneeze at.

“Well,” he sighed, looking in the mirror. “I am who I am.”

He adjusted his bowtie, and shut the closet door.

That was when Crowley entered the room. “You might not want to don the whole shebang today, angel. You’re going to be getting into and out of your clothes, maybe several times. Do you really want to do up the waistcoat and bowtie and coat, every single time?”

Aziraphale looked his companion over, and noted the simple black tee-shirt and black jeans. He smiled a bit naughtily. “Is that why you’ve always kept things simpler? Climb out of your togs on a moment’s notice?”

“A demon’s got to do what a demon’s got to do,” Crowley smirked.

"Actually, Crowley, I'll be feeling enough like a fish out of water. I'd prefer to be able to get back into clothing that makes me feel like me, when we are finished."

"Okay. Suit yourself." Then Crowley indicated Aziraphale's light brown lace-up boots. “You also might want to consider wearing something on your feet that you can slip on and off. Do you own any shoes that you can slip on and off?”

“Erm… yes, I do,” replied Aziraphale, reopening the closet and taking a shoebox off the top shelf, containing some loafers he had only worn a couple of times. “They’re Sawyer and Sims!”

“You named them?” Crowley asked, looking at the shoes, feigning disbelief.

Aziraphale stifled a laugh. “Yes, Crowley. I name all of my inanimate possessions. Especially things that come in pairs. My usual shoes are Margret and Steven. These socks are Bonnie and Clyde, because they have a lot of holes.”

“Wow, angel,” Crowley marvelled. “Dark, as well as sarcastic. Well done.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

\----------------------------------------------------

There were not a lot of people at Harrod’s that day, though one could not say that business was “dead,” exactly. Shopping conditions were just about perfect, as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

“Well, in light of the fact that ‘The Rite of Spring’ is in only two days, shall we begin with the suit, as we’ll have to have it tailored, and will have to pay extra for expedience as it is?” Aziraphale asked, as they reached the top of the escalator near menswear.

“I suppose so, but if you start beating some sort of let’s-wait-for-another-day drum when it comes to choosing new duds for you…”

“I won’t, I promise,” Aziraphale said, and his stomach flipped over. He frowned deeply.

“Oi, what’s that look? What are you so worried about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale whined. “I know it’s just clothes. I know I can trust you to choose something that becomes me…”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, rather gently, taking his hand. “I know it’s been a while, angel… but it’s going to be okay. Maybe letting you choose out something for me first is precisely what is needed, eh? Help you loosen up?”

The two of them were soon approached by a five-foot-two, ninety-pound, dark-haired, red-lipsticked salesperson whose nametag read ‘Felicia.’ She introduced herself, and pronounced her name in the Spanish way, feh-lee-see-yah, and asked what she could do to help them.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said, rather uneasily. “It has been, erm, well… nigh on ages since my partner has been to a performance of the Royal Philharmonic.”

“I see,” Felicia said, with a smile.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley and whispered, “Can I say ‘ages’ to her?”

“Yes, yes, it's fine. Just keep talking, angel,” Crowley sighed.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale continued, turning back to the salesperson. “So, he needs a new suit. Something modern, with the appropriate amount of cool, yet more formal than what he is currently wearing. Oh, and most likely in dark colours, as that seems to be his preference. Actually, is ‘cool’ a relative term? Do we need to explain more?”

The woman smiled and couldn’t say anything for a moment, unable to hide her surprise at this seeming relic of a man, who appeared entirely uncomfortable here and spoke like a total Victorian transplant.

Crowley could read her thoughts somewhat, and said, “It’s been nigh on ages since he’s thought about clothes – you’ll have to forgive him.”

“No need,” she assured them, recovering. Then she asked Crowley, “Do you have a particular brand that you prefer?”

“The usuals,” he shrugged. “Armani, Versace, Hugo Boss…”

“Well, gents, right this way,” she said, leading them around a corner, through a salesfloor filled with leather goods, and through a doorway. It turned out to be a very spacious, very posh dressing area. She pulled the door closed, and threw a kind of lock that signified the room was private and occupied. There was an area in the middle with grey leather ottomans and tiny tables for drinks. The room was lined entirely with men’s suits of varying sizes, colours and brands. “Have a seat. Would you like some wine?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said, as though he’d just been offered a lifeline.

“Red or white?”

“Red, if you please.”

Crowley signalled the number “two,” and Felicia disappeared for a few moments.

“All right, angel?”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale answered, moving round the room, looking at the merchandise the way a bird looks at an approaching cat. “Tickety-boo.”

“Oh, shit, we’re in trouble now,” Crowley muttered.

“Why so?”

“You only say tickety-fucking-boo when something is seriously wrong.”

“Nothing is seriously wrong,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m just nervous, all right?”

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about,” Crowley told him, catching him in mid-pace, and pulling him into a hug. “It’s just clothes.”

Aziraphale, of course, hugged back, but said, “It’s outside of the cube for me."

“Outside the box?”

“Yes, that.”

“Angel, all you have to focus on, for right now, is sitting on a cushioned ottoman, drinking wine, and watching me try on designer suits. You can handle that, can’t you?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, of course. I rather fancy the idea of seeing you gussied-up for a formal event.”

Crowley pulled back, and held his companion briefly by the elbows. “Do me a favour, and don’t ever say ‘gussied-up’ again. Unless you want to see me in a corset and stockings.”

“Well…” Aziraphale began, eyebrows up, in a contemplative expression.

Crowley then stepped away and opened his arms to make a point. “And in an hour, you’ll have some fermented grape in your veins, you’ll have been plied into a state of – dare I say? – mild arousal, and then you get to let me do the same thing.”

“L-let you do the same thing?”

“Mm-hm,” the tall, dark tempter sang, smirking. “Drink wine, lie back like a gecko sunning himself on a rock, and try not to touch the bulge forming in my trousers, while you model for me. Nothing scandalous, just modern chic, befitting a man of the world in the twenty-first century. Efficient, elegant, smart. Nonchalant, fashionable, sexy.”

“I am none of those things, Crowley.”

“You are ALL of those things, angel. Well, perhaps not exactly nonchalant, but whatever – I’ve got nonchalance enough for the both of us. It’s just that your clothing suggests that you were all of those things a hundred-and-fifty years ago, which distracts from the fact that you still are.”

“Oh. Goodness,” Aziraphale said, quietly, with a noticeable swallow. “I’m going to feel like I’m in a costume, Crowley.”

“Perhaps, but all you’re doing is trying it on today, and then going to one concert in a couple of weeks. That’s it. You could think of it as role-play, if you like. It will make me happy. Some parts of me happier than others. How does that sound?”

“When you put it that way, rather Heavenly. I almost wish we didn’t have Felicia.”

“That’s the spirit, angel,” Crowley growled, then moved closer for a kiss. He moaned just slightly as their lips pressed together. Then, “Think of it as foreplay.”

“Is that how you’ve been looking at it?” Aziraphale whispered.

“You have to ask?” Crowley whispered, flitting a naughty eyebrow.

“In that case, I don’t think we’re finished talking about the corset and stockings.”

A dark smile began to form on Crowley’s face, and Felicia returned then with a glass of red wine in each hand. She handed them off, and Aziraphale sat down with his.

“Well, now,” Felicia said, looking Crowley over. “Let’s see… I’m going to guess, just for trying-on purposes… inseam 33, waist 30ish? Is that, right, Mr…?”

“Crowley,” he said. “And yeah, more or less. Depends on the brand.”

She continued looking him over, and making little affirming grunting noises, then she moved over to a rack, and pulled down a suit jacket and trousers, and held them out to him. “This is made by Saks Fifth Avenue Italy. I think the Modern Fit would suit you, since you’re, shall we say, thin and robust. It’s polished wool of course, Milano silk lining and retails for just under seven-hundred pounds.”

“It’s black,” Aziraphale commented.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Eighty per cent of what I own is black – where’ve you been?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to a funeral, Crowley. Wouldn’t a nice dark blue be much better for the symphony?”

“Well, since it’s ‘The Rite of Spring,’ wouldn’t the aforementioned corset and stockings actually work even better than that?”

Felicia laughed, unperturbed.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded.

“If you want blue, we’ve got blue,” Felicia shrugged. “A deep navy would complement your hair and skin tone, I must say.”

“Let me just try this one for the style and fit,” Crowley said. “Then, if you want me in blue, who am I to argue? But I’ve never owned a ‘Modern Fit’ suit, so let’s just see where that takes us, conceptually, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Felicia said. She eyed Crowley one more time, then moved over to a rack that contained at least a hundred identical, generic, white dress shirts. She pulled one, then held it out for him. “All right, Mr. Crowley, you can go behind that curtain there, or I can step out, and you can try it on right here. The basic fit should work, but of course, if you’re interested in it, we’ll tailor it to your specifications.”

Crowley stepped behind a grey suede curtain, and Felicia sat down beside Aziraphale.

They discussed the weather, the fact that Felicia enjoyed her job and had been at it for seven years, Aziraphale’s Sawyer and Sims loafers, and the fact that Felicia’s husband owned a pair as well.

It acted as a segue into, “So, are you two married?”

The question took Aziraphale so off-guard, he almost spilled his drink.

“Oh! No,” he said. “No, we’re… we’re together. Not married.”

She chuckled. “Sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.”

“It’s all right,” Crowley called from behind the curtain. “He just gets dodgy when people ask us about marriage because he’s reluctant to commit."

“I see,” Felicia said.

“Why, that’s… that’s… that’s not true at all! Why would you say such a thing, Crowley?” Aziraphale sputtered.

Crowley could be heard laughing behind the curtain.

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, belt up, you old snake!” He turned to Felicia. “I am in no way reluctant.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she said, waving off the comment with a well-manicured hand. “What would a safer question be? How about, what do you boys do for a living?”

“Oh, I own a bookshop in Soho,” Aziraphale told her, proudly. “Rare and antique. Been there… well, a long time, now.”

“And you, Mr. Crowley?”

“Er, I am currently a gentleman of leisure,” he told her. "Perhaps 'kept' might be the proper word?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale scolded, with an eyeroll.

“Sounds intriguing.”

“Oh, it is. I drink wine, keep my car sparkling clean, keep the flat stocked with rich foods, and make sure to stay pretty.” 

With that, Crowley pulled back the curtain. He now stood there in a burning white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a black, slim suit that highlighted his long, lithe, reptilian frame. He wore no shoes at the moment, but the smirk overtook everything.

Aziraphale sat up straight and took notice, putting his drink down for good measure. “Good Heavens,” he breathed.

“Like?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale answered, getting lost in the moment. And just like that, his nervousness melted away, and a certain thrill took over. He imagined being the one in the clothes, being viewed as he now viewed Crowley, with awe, lust, anticipation… the thought of it was intoxicating. 

Then he realised there was a third person in the room, and he cleared his throat and said, “I mean, yes, Crowley, it suits you extremely well. Pardon the pun.”

A snake-like smile crawled across Crowley’s face as he watched Aziraphale blush, and struggle to hide his surprise and surges of lust.

Felicia moved forward and began tugging at the suit, discussing the very minor adjustments that might need to be made.

“Would you like to try a Versace?” she asked him.

“Sure, why not? Bring me blue,” he answered, winking at Aziraphale.

Felicia obliged, and the curtain slid shut again.

“You all right?” she asked Aziraphale. “Would you like some water?”

“No, no, thank you,” he said, though he would very much have liked to accept.

The next time Crowley opened the curtain, he was wearing a blue pinstriped suit, with the same ardently white shirt, same smirk, and Aziraphale had the same reaction. He felt obliged to use breathing techniques he’d learned in Yoga classes in order to keep his blood flowing properly.

Once again, Felicia fussed over the cuffs and hems, and marvelled at how well the suit off-the-rack fit already.

“Would you do me a favor, Mr. Crowley, and try on the Armani Collezioni G-line?” she asked. “I absolutely adore that suit, and very few men could pull it off as you could.”

“Lay it on me,” Crowley shrugged.

She bustled around the room collecting the jacket and trousers needed. “I think you’ll love it. It’s upwards of thirteen-hundred pounds, but it might be worth it to you. Oh, bugger.”

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked.

“We only have it in black,” she said. “We can order it in blue, though, if you decide to go that direction.” She then handed the suit to Crowley, and once again, he shut the curtain.

Just then, the phone at Felicia’s hip rang, and she said, “Excuse me, please,” and answered it. The conversation lasted ten seconds, before she cut off the call, and said, “Gents, can you excuse me for a few minutes?”

“Take your time, love,” Crowley said, from behind the curtain.

Aziraphale panicked a bit. Flashes of what might happen if he and Crowley were left alone together once the curtain was open, and Crowley was standing there painted in Armani…

“Er, Felicia, perhaps you could show me to the ties,” he said, desperately. “Crowley, you don’t own a modern cravat-style tie, do you? I’ll choose one or two, and see what you think.”

“All right, angel,” Crowley answered.

Felicia giggled. “Angel. That’s so sweet.”

She then stepped outside of the VIP dressing room and gestured toward the section of the store where ties were displayed.

\-------------------------------------------

When Crowley opened the curtain this time, neither Aziraphale nor Felicia was in the vicinity. He sauntered about the room, wearing the best-fit suit yet, in black, seriously cool, admiring his profile in the mirrors, hands in pockets, hands out of pockets, jacket open, jacket closed… feeling pretty pleased with himself overall.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and Aziraphale stepped inside. “Oh, Lord,” he exclaimed, with more breath than voice, upon seeing the spectacular man currently making his way back round to the curtained-off area. He swallowed hard, watching Crowley move, and wondering whether this G-line might have been designed with his partner specifically in mind.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Crowley lilted.

“Oh, indeed.”

“Still think you’d prefer me in blue?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I found this,” Aziraphale said, holding up a tie he had chosen. It was black silk, with a shiny, red, scaly, severe-looking snake coiling unevenly up and down the tie. Its head was reared back, its mouth was open, its fangs bared. Bright gold thread composed the dagger-like teeth, as well as the eyes, slitted with vertical black pupils.

Crowley felt quite moved, and almost choked-up when he saw it. “Angel, you chose this for me?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“It’s... perfect," Crowley replied, fingering it, squinting at it, as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

Aziraphale smiled softly, and wrapped it around Crowley’s neck, adjusting the shirt collar to accommodate it. Slowly, gently, he tied it in a flawless Windsor knot, replaced the collar, and smoothed it down over Crowley’s chest with one firm stroke, tucking it inside the G-line suit coat. He looked his partner over, and marvelled at how the tie complemented the flaming, shiny red hair, and the serpentine body itself.

He looked up, knowing that Crowley’s brown, soulful human eyes had never left his as he had been doing this, and just for a moment, they amalgamated with the golden eyes on the tie.

The next thing he knew, he’d been grabbed hard, and Crowley’s tongue was in his mouth. He let it in with a groan, and gave himself over to a delicious, clandestine kiss…

…and somewhat to the feeling of tightening trousers, and the sensation of Crowley hardening, pressing against him.

Felicia was on her way back, they both knew it, and these clothes hadn’t been paid for…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hope is that you found this chapter interesting, but mostly sweet, and at the end, romantic. Thoughts? Suggestions? 
> 
> I loooooove comments, and this story gets very few, so feed my neediness and keep me going! :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	22. Lighting a Mix and Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale continue their titillating adventures in trying on new clothes at Harrod's, for their upcoming musical events.
> 
> We know the effect that Crowley's new suit has had upon Aziraphale. But what effect will a restyled Aziraphale have upon Crowley?
> 
> No smut yet. But innuendo - lots of it. And humor!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time with this chapter, because I have a hard time with fashion. And sometimes I don’t have a very good visual imagination, so I’ll admit, I had a hard time visualizing Aziraphale as a chic, modern-looking man. So, I looked at a lot of men’s fashion photos, ensembles in light colors, various jackets, shirts, trouser styles, and focused on a few favorites that I found. I also spent a bit of time browsing pictures of Michael Sheen wearing various things, but his real-life look is so different from that of Aziraphale, it was almost useless. It was easy for me to picture Crowley in a fitted suit (for some fairly obvious reasons), but a bit harder to put his counterpart in casual chic.
> 
> Here’s the thing: so much fuss is made over David Tennant’s almost ‘ineffable’ sex appeal… if not his looks, then at least his style, charisma, the way he carries himself, his great hair, lean body, pouty lips, etc. Plus, TV Crowley is crafted to be sexy, period. But in writing this, all the while, I kept in mind the fact that Michael Sheen is inescapably a very handsome man as well! I’m not just blowing smoke when I write about Aziraphale’s amazing smile… that’s Michael Sheen’s smile! So, I don’t know if you will have the same issues visualizing Aziraphale’s new duds, but I invite you think on it, take time to form a picture in your mind’s eye, as you go. Thanks! Enjoy!

Aziraphale looked up into the soulful human eyes that had never left his. He’d been able to feel them as he had fastened a brilliant red, black, and gold snake tie round Crowley’s neck, complementing the new G-line suit, that seemed to throw the former demon into a new stratosphere of tempting. He knew that his beautiful, somewhat sinister partner was quite moved, and just for a moment, his brown eyes amalgamated with the golden one on the tie.

The next thing Aziraphale knew, he’d been grabbed hard, and Crowley’s tongue was in his mouth. He let it in with a groan, and gave himself over to a delicious, clandestine kiss…

…and somewhat to the feeling of tightening trousers, and the sensation of Crowley hardening, pressing against him.

Felicia was on her way back, they both knew it, and these clothes hadn’t been paid for…

“Crowley, we have to stop,” Aziraphale breathed, as his companion’s mouth moved across his cheek and down his neck. “This isn’t the time, nor the place.”

“Oh, this is definitely the time,” Crowley groaned, pressing forward, grinding his erection into Aziraphale’s body.

The former angel groaned in response, in spite of himself. Then, “But not the place. And those trousers still need tailoring!”

“Shit,” Crowley spat. He let go, and took a step back. “Fine. I hate when you’re right.”

Aziraphale blushed, again, in spite of himself, as he looked Crowley over – gorgeous suit, perfect tie, lust in his eyes… a six-foot bundle of temptation.

“I’ll owe you big this Thursday night,” he whispered.

Crowley smiled wickedly. “Do you mean, during the Philharmonic performance?”

“I make no promises about ‘during,’ but I’m certain I won’t survive the evening sitting beside you in that suit,” Aziraphale said, breathily. 

“You won’t have to look at me, and you’ll have the music to distract you,” Crowley smirked.

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

"Never. Never, ever."

“Perhaps we ask Anathema and Newt if they would mind having drinks with us prior to the performance, instead of after. I think we’ll have to reserve ‘after’ for ourselves.”

“Whatever you like, angel.”

Felicia returned at that moment, and it did not escape her notice that the two of them were standing awfully close, were a bit intense, a bit breathless and flushed. And it definitely did not escape her notice when they abruptly moved apart like two repelling magnets, Aziraphale sat down on one of the ottomans and crossed his legs, and Crowley hopped behind the curtain.

He leaned only his upper-half out from behind the curtain to say, “I think this is the one. We’ll take it.”

“Excellent choice,” she said. “Ooh, great tie.”

“Thanks.”

“Why don’t I, er… well, I’ll give you a couple more minutes to admire it if you’d like, before I pin it and prepare it for tailoring,” she said, not making eye-contact. “Maybe I could just go and get the paperwork?”

“Speaking of tailoring,” Aziraphale said. “What would it take to have it ready by Thursday?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll erm… go get the paperwork for the purchase and find out for you. I will be back in five minutes.”

“Fine,” said Crowley.

“Is that enough time?” she asked him, pointedly.

“Enough time for what?” Aziraphale asked, totally innocent.

“It’s plenty,” Crowley said from behind the curtain. “Thank you, Felicia.”

“Right,” she said, uneasily, and she flitted out of the room.

“Enough time for what?” Aziraphale asked, again, after she was gone.

Crowley peeked out from behind the curtain and asked, “Why are your legs crossed?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “Oh, dear! She noticed?”

“Erm, yeah,” Crowley answered, opening the curtain completely. The suit was definitely not fitting properly at the moment. “Wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale looked away, as though he’d just been made to look at the sun.

Crowley shut the curtain again and said, “We’ve got five minutes to calm down.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, then rested his hands on his lap. “All right. Unsexy thoughts… oh I know! Hastur. Or Beelzebub.”

“Gabriel, and the Archwanker Brigade,” said Crowley. “Gabriel in a ballgown and tiara?”

“The Dark Council. In their undergarments!”

“The Dark Council grinding their teeth…”

“The Dark Council tapdancing!” Aziraphale offered.

“No, I’ve got it! Gabriel in a ballgown and tiara, performing ‘Hey Big Spender’ in front of the Dark Council!”

The two of them laughed, and spent the next five minutes talking through the curtain about the stupidest, least-sexy things they could think of.

By the time Felicia returned with an electronic tablet and a pin cushion, Aziraphale was dying with laughter, and Crowley was singing in an off-key falsetto, “Cream-coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles…”

“Oh God, stop, stop!” Aziraphale cried out, cackling uncontrollably.

“Hi, gents,” Felicia said. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves!”

Crowley opened the curtain and smiled. “We are. But not too much. That’s kind of the point, eh? Angel, get a hold of yourself, for goodness’ sake! It wasn’t THAT funny!”

It was another twenty seconds before Aziraphale was finally able to wipe his eyes, breathe normally, and speak.

“Sorry about this,” Crowley said to Felicia. “As it happens ‘My Favourite Things’ is one of his least favourite things. So naturally, I torture him with the entire ‘Sound of Music’ songbook.”

Aziraphale gave his last couple of chuckles, then said, “Oh, good Heavens! Apologies, my dear. Have you got something for me to sign?”

“Yes. Do you have an account with us?”

“No, but I’ll start one, if that’s all right,” he said, still guffawing just a bit.

“Absolutely,” she said. And she handed him the tablet and instructed him as to how to fill in his information and create a Harrod’s charge account. She also pointed out the cost of the suit, plus the tie, and speedy alterations.

Then, she opened a hidden cabinet and rolled out a round pedestal and put it beside one of the larger mirrors. Crowley stepped up, and she began to pin his new suit, so that it would fit (even more) like a glove.

While she worked, Crowley asked, “Do you mind if we keep this dressing suite for a bit longer? When you’re finished with that, it will be my companion’s turn to model some new duds.”

“A suit?” she asked out of one corner of her mouth. Pins were lodged in the other corner.

“No, just… something casual. We’re going to see a Queen cover band, and I just don’t want him getting his lunch money nicked,” Crowley said.

“Well, the suite is for suit fittings…” Felicia began.

“I’d hate to tempt you into breaking the rules, but he’s actually quite nervous. I think it might help him if we could keep things private.”

“Actually, my dear, it’s not necessary,” Aziraphale said to Felicia. “I’ve become much less nervous since…” He trailed off, because his trepidation had dissipated quite a bit after a wave of desire had come over him, upon seeing Crowley in a new suit. But he could hardly say that he was looking forward to being viewed by his lover as a piece of meat.

“Well, we ARE actually doing a suit fitting,” Felicia said. “No-one can say we didn’t do one when we used the suite, so… why not?”

“And there’s nothing that says I can’t try on a suit,” Aziraphale shrugged.

“What sort of thing are you actually looking for?” she asked, looking briefly at Aziraphale, pinning one of the darts in the back of Crowley’s new suit coat.

“I’m not sure. I’m putting myself entirely in the hands of my companion, here,” he responded. “I would have absolutely no idea what to choose. You may have noticed, I gravitate towards things that have been a bit démodé for quite a few years.”

“One never knows,” she said, chuckling, still holding pins between the corners of her lips. “Everything eventually comes back into fashion.”

\--------------------------------------

Felicia locked the dressing room, so as to keep it vacant for possibly the most eccentric and amusing couple she had ever had the pleasure of working with and observing. 

She and Aziraphale followed Crowley, who was back in his own black t-shirt and jeans, like an entourage through the men’s department, whilst he browsed. 

In truth, ‘browsing’ is quite a relaxed description for what he was doing.

He earnestly examined hundreds of items of sportswear: jackets, shirts of all types, trousers, and accessories. He seemed only marginally aware that he wasn’t alone, even as he yanked things off the rack, checked the size (Aziraphale had known his own measurements) and handed them off to his partner, or the saleswoman. 

Felicia had become weighed down with so many jackets (sport, leather, suede, blazers) that she could no longer carry them. She excused herself and took them back to the dressing room. Within a few moments, Aziraphale could handle no more hangers of trousers (khaki, brown, grey, linen, cotton/poly blends, denim) in the crook of his hand, and left to follow Felicia back to the dressing room.

The two of them hung the chosen garments neatly in the alcove behind the curtain, and waited just for a moment, before Crowley came through the door with an armful of shirts, ties, and belts.

“Oh, goodness! What am I supposed to do with all that?” Aziraphale asked, almost despairingly.

Felicia took it all out of Crowley’s hands, and joined it with the garments they had already hung up.

“Mix and match, angel,” Crowley responded, with a grand gesture of both arms. “There may be a few exceptions, but for my money, any combination of trousers, shirt, belt, and jacket should ‘go.’ There may be styles and cuts and concepts you don’t fancy, but that’s why we’re here.”

“Mix and match?” Aziraphale asked, unsurely. He looked at Felicia.

“He’s chosen a tan, grey, and blue colour palate,” Felicia said. “Like he said, with a few exceptions, you should do well just to pick some things and put them on.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale breathed. “Let’s see where this takes us. Tally-ho.”

“One rule: you have to show me everything you put on,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale nodded with a shy smile, then stepped into the alcove, and pulled the curtain closed.

Felicia sat down on an ottoman next to the former demon. “So, Mr. Crowley, I have never caught your partner’s name,” she said, loudly, as a whimsical way of asking the question.

“Fell,” Aziraphale said from behind the curtain. “That’s my, er… my surname.”

“All right, Mr. Fell,” she chirped. “I’m curious – what is it that has made you wear Victorian vintage items for so long?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale began rather fretfully, and in his tone, Crowley sensed panic. Not only was he currently doing something that was way outside of his comfort zone, but he was being asked to think fast. He had to come up with the answer to a question he had perhaps never been asked, and cover for the fact that he had been on this planet longer than the Pyramids at Giza, and had bought his current ensemble new in 1839. Other pieces at home (or at the dry cleaner’s) were newer – his favourite tailor had been in his heyday between 1856 and 1871.

“Well, like we said before, he’s an antique book dealer,” Crowley said, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped as though casually chatting. “He wanted authenticity and ambiance, you know? So he started dressing the part, and I guess couldn’t stop.”

“Ah, interesting,” she commented. “Have you had them all made for you? Do you go to a costumer?”

“No, they are original,” Aziraphale responded, without thinking.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “They are in amazing shape!”

“Yes, well,” he chuckled nervously from behind the curtain. “I’m a natural at keeping things pristine. Or rather, I used to be.”

“Yet another reason to buy you some new stuff, angel,” Crowley muttered. Then he cleared his throat. “How’s it going back there? Are things fitting you?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale answered. “I think I’m ready to open the curtain now.”

“Well, what the Heaven are you waiting for?” Crowley asked with a smile.

Aziraphale pulled the curtain back and revealed himself wearing a pair of dark blue jeans with a blue and white, large-printed tartan shirt tucked into it. He had put his Sawyer and Sims loafers back on, and was holding an off-white blazer in his hand.

Crowley was speechless for a moment. In the last few months, he had seen his angel in a small variety of states-of-dress, outside of his usual waistcoat and bowtie, et cetera. He had seen him dressed for yoga or exercise, in pyjamas, and of course, in the nude. Though, none of these had been chosen for style, and the shock of seeing Aziraphale in modern walking-around clothes was a bit of a shock to his system.

Felicia, fortunately, got to her feet, and distracted a bit from Crowley’s gaping jaw. 

“That shirt is meant to be worn untucked. And let me just…” she said to Aziraphale, as she unbuttoned his left shirt cuff, and began to roll it up.

“Oh, okay,” he said. He untucked the shirt, and rolled up the other sleeve. “Like this?”

“Yeah…” Crowley mused, still a bit taken aback. “Like that.”

“Very smart,” Felicia marvelled.

Aziraphale raised his arms a bit, and looked down at himself. It felt odd, but not unpleasant, and of course, Crowley’s reaction was being recorded for posterity. He had said that Aziraphale trying on clothes would have him lying back like a gecko on a rock, trying not to touch himself. But instead, he seemed more surprised and enthralled, drooly, rather than cool.

Aziraphale noticed then that he had pockets. “Oh! I’ve never had pockets before!” he exclaimed, shoving his hands into them, and rocked back on his heels with a smile.

This pose hit Crowley like a ton of bricks. “Wow…” he whispered.

“Do the jeans feel all right?” asked Felicia. “They look great – very fitted, modern.”

“Yes, only… I’m not fond of the texture of denim,” Aziraphale told her.

“Okay, you’ve got plenty of other things to choose from,” she said. “Try on the blazer.”

He did. It was just a bit snug across the shoulders, so he didn’t button it, but he seemed to like what he saw in the mirror when he turned. And again, he slid his hands into the pockets, and posed for Crowley. “What do you think? Worthy of Seen Queen?”

“Uhhh…” Crowley could only answer. Then he came to, and pulled his smartphone from his pocket.

“What’re you doing, you silly thing?” Aziraphale complained.

“Snapping a photo. For later.”

“What?”

“Just… try on the next thing,” Crowley commanded. “Er, should we wrap these things up?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale said.

“Even the jeans? Could you get used to them?” Then Crowley broke into a smile, and a nervous, surrendering laugh. “I’d really love it if you got used to them.”

Aziraphale bent his knees. “I could try.”

“We’ll take them,” Crowley told Felicia.

She moved toward Aziraphale and scanned each thing that he was wearing with a sku gun. He then smiled flirtatiously at Crowley, and shut the curtain again.

Felicia watched him bat his eyes, then looked at Crowley’s glazed-over eyes as the curtain shut, and asked, “More wine?” 

It was all she could think to ask, though she had so many more questions than that.

“Erm, yes, thanks,” Crowley answered.

“I’ll be right back.”

The two of them said nothing until Aziraphale opened the curtain again, before she returned. 

This time, he had put on a pair of worn-looking bluish-grey trousers. Above the waist, he was wearing a tee-shirt of a similar colour, and a light grey cashmere jumper over it. The cashmere item had a zip at the neck, and he was wearing it closed only a quarter of the way. He was smiling. “I rather like this one.”

Crowley smiled, eyes drooping a bit. “Me, too.”

“You know, for centuries, I’ve heard people singing the praises of cashmere, but I’ve never bothered to wonder at what the fuss was about. Now I see the appeal.”

“Oh, yes.”

After a bit more banter, he shut the curtain one more time, and by the time he opened it again, Felicia had returned with two more glasses, and Crowley had downed most of his. Aziraphale was now wearing a pair of khaki flat-front trousers with a brown calfskin belt. Tucked into them was a white nylon v-neck tee-shirt, and over that, a tan leather jacket. The collar was more of a band than a collar, and had a snap clasp. Other than that, its lines were clean and straight – no zips except for the long one in front, no pockets, no unnecessary seams.

Crowley stood up, and held out his arms subtly toward his partner, and said, “Angel, what did I tell you? Efficient, elegant, smart. Nonchalant, fashionable, sexy.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, I do,” Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale smiled and said, “I look like a version of you in light colours.”

Crowley took his hands and smiled back. “You’ve always been the other side of my coin.” Then he lowered his voice a Hell of a lot. “A tail for my head, if you will.”

Aziraphale felt a flush of warmth, in all the right ways. He leaned to his left to look past Crowley, and say to Felicia, “We’ll take this ensemble as well.”

“Fantastic,” she said. “Are you finished trying things on, or are you going to continue fitting?”

Staring into Crowley’s brown eyes, and noticing the droopy smirk on his face, Aziraphale responded, “I think I’m finished for the day. Three possible ensembles will do.”

Crowley looked his lover over, with renewed vigour in his gaze. He whispered, “I can’t wait to muss you all up, angel.”

“Oh, my…”

“Straight home after this?” he asked, with one flit of a naughty, uneven eyebrow.

“Right, well, I’ll go get the paperwork again,” Felicia interrupted. “Mr. Fell, would you like to wear those clothes out of the store?”

“Yes, he would,” Crowley said. “He’ll need a chance to live in them first, before we do the real thing at a rock concert.”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently. “A chance to live in them first?”

“Yes.”

“The way guns lend weight to a moral argument?”

Crowley chuckled, charmed by the challenge and sarcasm.

“Okay. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, gents,” she reminded them pointedly, not having heard precisely what was said, but having picked up their tone. “A couple of minutes. Okay?”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, without looking at her, and she stepped out of the room.

Crowley smiled, still standing quite close to his always-lovely, but today very sleek-looking, partner. “She was very insistent on that 'couple of minutes' point. She thinks we might want to fuck.”

“Where ever would she get an idea like that?” Aziraphale asked, with a flush.

“Pretty bloody presumptuous of her,” Crowley muttered, still grinning, and he reached out and pressed his hand against a growing bulge at the front of a pair of unpaid-for khaki flat-front trousers.

Aziraphale took a step back. “Not now.”

“Sorry. Can’t help myself. You look so different. Sophisticated. Powerful. I’m seeing you buying property on the Greek Coast and being served cocktails by shirtless men.”

“Well, keep your hands to yourself for the time being. Didn’t you say that you’re viewing this little excursion as foreplay?” Aziraphale asked, haughtily. "I think we should take a bit more time."

"Ah, yes. Ye-of-the-motor-show-slow-burn would know quite well that foreplay can be a protracted process.”

“It can.”

“So, perhaps we slow down for now, and shop for shoes next. Then perhaps we have dinner and drinks, then dessert, maybe go for a walk, and then…” Again, he flitted an eyebrow to suggest what might happen next.

“All right.”

“Temptation accomplished?”

“As usual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have more on Crowley's comments here, about a "powerful" Aziraphale, and where this "costume" takes them. I decided that the new look is quite potent for everyone involved, especially considering Aziraphale's long-stilted dress habits.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are still few on this story, so why not make my day by leaving another one? :-)


	23. Powerful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has worn his chic new outfit out of the store. We know Crowley's rather taken by it, but how does the rest of the world feel about it?
> 
> No smut yet, but leading up to it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit ridiculous, but was SO MUCH FUN to write!
> 
> Can a few new clothes completely change the way the world at-large interacts with a person, and vice-versa? Perhaps, but most likely, the change would be a heck of a lot more subtle than this chapter makes it out to be.
> 
> But if you think of it in terms of how Aziraphale is carrying himself, what a "quick learner" we already know that he is, and how appearance-obsessed (not to mention money-and-power-obsessed) the modern world is, perhaps it's not so far-fetched. Crowley definitely gets it. Also... again, our favourite angel does have a hugely disarming smile, and a dyanmic and sensual voice. Shrug - see what you think!
> 
> Enjoy!

Once Felicia wrapped up Aziraphale’s purchases, they walked across the store to the shoe department, where another young salesperson helped them choose. Crowley agreed that Aziraphale’s usual light brown boots would go just fine with the new kit, but that he, himself, needed a pair of dress shoes for the London Philharmonic. They agreed upon a pair of black lace-ups that would complement the Armani G-line, as well as possibly go with some of Crowley’s other, less-formal, “cool” wear. Of course, this was after trying seemingly every pair of black shoes in the store.

At that time, it was slightly too early for dinner, so they made a stop in the Perrier-Jouët Champagne Terrace within Harrod’s, and shared an hors d’oeuvres plate of crayfish, miniature crab cakes, sliced octopus with soy and wasabi sauce, and of course, oysters. They sipped an entire bottle of Pierre-Jouët’s brut, but they did it so slowly whilst chatting about clothes, music, Felicia, the shoes salesperson, Anathema and Newt, and making the occasional innuendo, that neither of them felt the effects of the alcohol.

They sat beside each other, in the area of the lounge where the tables were about chest-high, and the chairs were more like bar stools. They were situated with their backs to the window, so that they could people-watch while they sipped and nibbled. For the moment, Crowley was content just to enjoy the food and the company, and did not insist upon his usual position across from Aziraphale, as voyeur. Although, he knew that state of affairs couldn’t last all night, especially not with his partner in his new look.

Both of them noticed different people passing by – couples, groups, girls-night-out types, the occasional individual – and smiling at them as an "adorable" pair. Which almost always happened, especially since they stopped holding back, as it were. But Crowley was a very attuned to human facial expression and body language (it had once been a huge part of his job to read these markers), and he noticed a whole different reaction specifically to Aziraphale. Aziraphale himself only noticed it once, and it was while Crowley was in the lavatory.

Two attractive, professionally-dressed women were taking possession of the table beside him. One of them bumped into him by accident, as she manoeuvred into the space, and said, “Oh! Pardon me.” Then, she very, very obviously looked him over. Aziraphale looked down at himself in his new ensemble, and wondered if something was wrong with it. She smiled. “Oh, please tell me you’ve not been sitting there all on your own.”

“What?” he asked, nervously. “Oh, er, no, my companion is in the loo.”

The woman’s eyes flitted over to the chair beside Aziraphale, along with the plate of oyster and crayfish shells, and the quarter-full champagne flute.

“Ah, of course,” she mused. “Should’ve known you’d be snatched up already.”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely confused.

That was when Crowley reappeared from around the corner. He was still out of earshot, but even from afar, he could immediately see the situation for what it was. He could tell, based on the woman’s expression, and Aziraphale’s cluelessness. He contemplated walking on past, allowing Aziraphale a few moments to realise what was happening, and think to enjoy it, but he reckoned there was no way he could do that without his partner asking, “Crowley, where the Hell are you going?”

So, he took his seat again, and as he did, both women, plus Aziraphale looked at him, and talking ceased. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, swigging the last of what was in his glass.

The woman chuckled, then patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, and said, “I see. I never stood a chance, did I? Enjoy your evening, gents.” With that, she turned and sat down, and joined her friend in conversation.

Within ten minutes, Aziraphale and Crowley were leaving the champagne bar, and as they stepped onto the escalator, on their way back down to the ground floor, Aziraphale asked, “What did she mean by, ‘I see, I never stood a chance?’”

“She means, you’re playing on the other pitch.”

Aziraphale frowned, and thought for a moment. “I still don’t understand.”

Crowley sighed. “It means, she fancies you but you’re with me.”

“’Playing on the other pitch’ means I’m with someone?”

“No, angel… it means… you know what? Just let it go. Take the compliment, and move on with your life.”

"Which part of that is a compliment?"

"The whole thing. The whole interaction from beginning to end, it was a compliment. You can't really be this thick."

\-------------------------------------------

“Do you know what I fancy?” Aziraphale asked, sliding in on the left side of the Bentley a few minutes later.

“Besides me?”

“Yes, besides you,” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. “I fancy an evening preparing for our Mallorcan holiday, and more ‘fruits de mer,’ of the tapas variety.”

“You’re thinking Barrafina?” Crowley asked, referring to a restaurant in Soho where they’d been, on more than one occasion.

“Indeed!”

“Sounds fine, except the whole restaurant is bar-style, we’ll have to sit side-by-side.”

“We’ll ask for a corner, if you insist on being the lecherous voyeur, as per usual,” Aziraphale said, curtly, while blushing.

“Or, we could just do the Ivy, just around the corner from there,” Crowley offered. “Always reliable. Plenty of time for tapas when we’re in actual Mallorca.”

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale sighed. “The Ivy is quite a place. I quite fancy their scallops with cauliflower purée.”

“I know you do.”

“And the cod baked in a banana leaf is to-die-for. It’s really the pickled fennel that makes the dish, you know. I wonder if they’ll serve it with the grilled broccoli again... I adore their pink peppercorn hollandaise sauce, but that only comes with the asparagus, and I do hate asking for substitutions.”

“You want it, angel,” Crowley lilted, becoming just a tad aroused by the enthused musings over foods. “You’ll never have it unless you ask. Demand, even.”

“Demand?”

“Why not?”

“Because I…” And then Aziraphale looked at Crowley and realised there was a lusty glint in his eye. “Well, I can be a bastard, can’t I?”

Crowley smiled. “Mm-hm.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, wiggling haughtily in his seat. “I don’t know how much I fancy the idea of demanding things, but there are definitely other ways for a bastard to get what he wants.”

\----------------------------------------------

A young woman named Emily waited on them at the Ivy. Crowley ordered a Zucchini Fritti amuse-bouche, and Aziraphale had Truffle Arancini – two small rice balls flavoured with truffle oil. Crowley skipped the hors d’oeuvre, but Aziraphale chose the seared scallops, even though they had both already had a decadent platter of seafood at the champagne lounge.

“Well, it’s just a bite, really,” he reasoned, spearing an expertly-prepared scallop with a small fork and popping it between his lips. "Mmm, melts in my mouth."

Then, as a main dish, Crowley asked for the Chicken Milanese as-is. Aziraphale, however, asked for the banana-leaf smoked cod filet, with extra pickled fennel, and asparagus with pink hollandaise, instead of broccoli. Emily blinked at him a few times, but his unwavering gaze (with a smile, of course) suggested that he meant what he had said.

Within a few minutes, a man in a white chef’s coat appeared at their table.

“Hello, gentlemen, I’m Chef Andrew Culpepper, how are we this evening?”

“We are well, thank you,” Aziraphale said, again, with a smile, and another of his delighted wiggles.

“Which one of you fine men requested the asparagus and pink hollandaise with the cod?”

“That would be me,” Aziraphale replied raising one finger.

The chef went on to explain, in what he no doubt hoped would be dizzying gastronomy jargon, why and how the cod had been paired specifically with the grilled broccoli. His reasoning included a specific spice palate, complementary smoky flavours and textures, and using techniques that highlight culinary traditions in particular parts of the world. 

Crowley leaned back in his chair with a smirk and a drink, while Aziraphale listened patiently. The latter was, of course, not at all dizzied by the jargon, and when the chef was finished, he replied, “All of those are very reasonable arguments, Chef Culpepper, and I resolutely respect you as an artist. Bravo. But as it happens, you are not the only well-versed gourmet in the room.”

Aziraphale then used similar language and reasoning to explain why he felt that the asparagus and pink hollandaise would be an excellent complement to the cod, as well.  
Culpepper stared momentarily off into the distance, and said, “I never thought of that.”

“Well, now you have,” Aziraphale said, cheerfully. “At the end of the day, it is your restaurant, of course. But I’m such a great, great fan of your innovative pink hollandaise… do you dispute that it’s a brilliant, flavourful creation?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why would an artist deny a paying, enthusiastic connoisseur?”

“He would not,” Andrew Culpepper said, with a little bow. “You have convinced me. Well done, sir.”

Twenty minutes later, the chef himself delivered both meals with Emily’s help. Aziraphale thanked him sincerely, and then proceeded to partake with his usual sensual gourmandise. And Crowley thought, given the entire tableau before him, not to mention the incident in the champagne bar, and the trying-on-clothes episode, that he might burst out of his trousers. 

And at the end of the meal, they said they both fancied a cheese course as dessert… after a bit of a breather from all the rich foods.

“That being the case, angel, I have an idea,” Crowley sang. “Let’s stop at that little fromagerie around the corner, choose a few items and take it back to the bookshop, and have our cheese course there.”

“An excellent idea, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I’ve even got a nice, seventy-nine-year-old Portuguese Colheita port upstairs in storage. It’s exceedingly rare – all wartime wines are. But it’s the perfect thing to pair with some after-dinner cheeses.”

And then, for the first time in centuries, the two of them left a restaurant without ordering a single dessert.

But before that, for the first time ever, an attendant brought the bill, and set it down directly in front of Aziraphale.

Crowley gave a private smile at this. Aziraphale simply picked up the little wallet, looked at the total, and paid it. But, in the past, when the two of them have dined or lunched together, the server had generally not known to whom to give the bill, so they have set it between them… or else they’ve handed it to Crowley. They had both always understood the assumption of their couplehood, long before that couplehood had been real. But only Crowley understood the particular assumption being made about them, that led servers to give the bill, almost always, to Crowley.

But no more – at least not tonight. He had said to Aziraphale in the fitting room that in the new kit, he seemed “powerful.” This was superficial, of course – Aziraphale had always been powerful, no matter what he wore. But to the outside observer, a man in a modern, stylish, well-put-together, well-fitting ensemble had an air of “I can do and have anything” about him. It suggested that he was wealthy and watchful, lived in the moment, and did so precisely by asking for what he wanted.

Perhaps Crowley was merely projecting, but there was a very specific reason he had suggested at stop at that particular cheese shop on the way back to the bookshop. The whole day had been one long exercise in foreplay…

\----------------------------------------------

The two of them entered the cheese shop just a few minutes later, and there didn’t seem to be anyone in, not even an employee. Although, a bell rang as they opened and closed the door, so within ten seconds, Craig Huling appeared behind the counter.

He saw Crowley first, whom he had seen multiple times before, and greeted him. “Oh, hello, there. What brings you…”

He had stopped short because his eye had then been caught by Aziraphale, whom he had not only seen before, but whom also he quite fancied. This had been evidenced a few weeks previously, when he had visited the bookshop hoping to woo the former angel into a dinner date and “who knows what else?”

Aziraphale was then reminded of that fact as well, and suddenly understood why Crowley had suggested coming here. He looked at his partner with disdain, but Crowley just winked and pretended to browse the featured fruit spreads beside the counter. But he watched the scene out of the corner of his eye.

Craig Huling was shorter than both of them, but had a robust build – probably spent a fair bit of time at the gym. He had closely-cropped dark hair with a bit of a spike at the front, and pleasing, rounded features – nose, cheeks, lips. When last they’d seen him, he’d been very scrubbed-up, clean-shaven and on display in a striking blue suit of the sort that had been precisely tailored, perhaps at Harrod’s. He’d got all done up to possibly entice a man whose company he wanted. But tonight, he was looking more like he usually did while at work in his fromagerie – white shirt, sleeves rolled up, apron over his front, a hint of five o’clock shadow, and exhaustion in his eyes. 

Huling straightened out his apron and blushed. He said, “Mr. Fell, good evening.”

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to react curtly, but all within a few seconds, he thought it through and decided there was no need to make this an uncomfortable experience for anyone involved – especially himself. So, he gave his absolutely radiant signature smile and said, “Good evening, Mr. Huling. Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected, I should think,” answered the cheese shop owner with his own, slightly nervous, smile.

“You know Crowley, I think,” Aziraphale said, gesturing.

Huling smiled. “Yes, though I’ve never known his name.” To Crowley he said, “Nice to meet you officially, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley gave a nod. “And you.”

“Well, we were on our way back to my shop for a cheese course,” Aziraphale said. “And were wondering what you would recommend to pair with a Colheita, 1940.”

“1940?” Huling asked, with some surprise. “Goodness, how would you have got your hands on that?”

“I bought it at the time,” Aziraphale answered without thinking.

Crowley cleared his throat loudly.

“At the time… of the fiftieth anniversary re-release,” Aziraphale covered. “A few original bottles went up for auction.”

Crowley rolled his eyes subtly. It was a pretty good save, but not a flawless one. The fiftieth anniversary was thirty years ago when "Mr. Fell" would have been about fifteen years old.

Still it made a lot more sense than the truth of his having acquired it himself in 1940.

“I see. How extraordinary!” Huling said. He then began to walk down the aisle between his refrigerated display, and the back wall, gesturing toward his stock. “Blue cheeses such as Stilton, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and Fourme d’Ambert are the classic candidates for a tawny port, of course. My personal favourite with a good port is a well-aged cheddar, however.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale said. “All right, we’ll start with two ounces of the Carles Roquefort. Crowley? Any opinions?”

“Pff, no,” Crowley scoffed. “About cheese? That’s your department, angel.”

“All right, then,” Aziraphale said, with his own, less-subtle, eyeroll. “How about another two ounces of the Wyke Farms Cheddar, if you think that will go well with an aged port, Mr. Huling.”

“Excellent choices,” Huling said.

Crowley, by then, had crossed the shop and was looking at the variety of dried figs displayed in the window. Each came with a description, and a nut pairing.

“Nut pairings,” Crowley chuckled. “Sounds like us.”

Huling finished cutting, weighing, and wrapping up the cheeses Aziraphale had chosen.

“And I suppose I’ll choose one more. I’m quite partial to Stiltons,” Aziraphale told Huling, inspecting the Stilton tray.

“Mm,” Huling commented. He eyed Aziraphale carefully in this unguarded moment, and then seemed to remember himself. Instinctively, he looked up at Crowley, who had been eyeing him, in turn. He smiled nervously, and Crowley responded with a wink. Huling blushed, and said, directly to Crowley. “Can I tell you boys a secret?”

“Please do,” Crowley said.

“Since you said you’re partial to Stiltons, and you’re planning on pairing it with a rare old port… well, I have managed to procure a half-pound of Long Clawson White Gold.”

“No!” Aziraphale said. “That’s… well, that’s the most expensive cheese produced in Britain.”

“I know,” Huling agreed. “Though most of it is being exported. I’m the only retailer I know of in London who is carrying it. But if I’m honest, that could change any day.”

“I must try it,” Aziraphale said, with a voraciousness in his voice.

“I’m afraid our policy, however, is to sell only one half-ounce at a time, however.”

“Your policy? Whose policy?”

“Mine, and my partner’s,” Huling said. “My sister, Kath – we own the shop together. We are not sure when we’ll be able to get it again, so… plus, it’s a good advertising technique, you know, to get people to come into the store. We need to have as many servings of the product as possible, for as many people as possible.”

“Well a half-ounce is not nearly enough for both of us to try, and savour,” Aziraphale complained, gesturing to himself and Crowley.

“I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “What do you think?”

“I have no idea,” Crowley said. “This is your show, angel.”

Aziraphale went into low-grade fret mode. He screwed up his facial features and began to fidget a bit with his hands, and moved to his left, intending to begin a pace.

But as he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane, and it stopped him walking. He stood up straight and studied himself – the new clothes, an entirely new look, gave an entirely new mood to his appearance. He was almost ashamed to admit to himself, it made a huge difference. Crowley had been correct. Well, correct with horny ulterior motives, but correct, nonetheless.

He'd been using his newfound "power" all evening, but was reminded of it again just now. Confidence infused him, and he put his hands in his pockets, which somehow enhanced the effect of the brand-new ensemble. It was fascinating, something so simple, and yet so potent…

He turned again to look at Crowley in this stance, with mild-mannered determination. Crowley did not have to fake the hitch in his breath that came from this action.

And Aziraphale was infused with another wave of assuredness. And something else. Something that was becoming quite familiar to him, especially with Crowley orchestrating things…

He put on a charming smile, and sauntered back over to the counter. “Mr. Huling,” he said, secretively, with a little twitch of the nose. “Craig. I’m going to need at least two ounces.”

“I really shouldn’t, Mr. Fell.”

“Aww. It could be, you know… just between us.”

“Well, us, and Mr. Crowley.”

“Don’t mind Crowley,” Aziraphale lulled. “He doesn’t know what we know, does he?”

Huling swallowed hard. The scent of “Mr. Fell” was in his nose, and the lilting voice was working, God help him. “That you’re trying to manipulate me? Pretty sure he does know that.”

Aziraphale chuckled, thinking it best not to actually deny the accusation. “I must ask you, what are two gents to do with half an ounce of White Gold? Sharing something that small would be… well, in the end, intimate, but not very... well, satisfying.”

“And I tell my sister… what?”

Aziraphale made a show of shrugging, then thinking. Then he whispered, “That company policy is nothing in the noble pursuit of satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction?”

“Mm,” Aziraphale continued, low and discreet. His voice was hypnotically musical. “Satisfying an eager customer. A very eager one. And a very experienced one, at that. Experienced in the tasting and assessing of cheese, that is."

"I knew what you meant," Huling mused. "I think."

"And you also know that the evening cannot be complete for said customer and his partner, if a desire goes unsated.”

Huling gazed at Aziraphale’s incredibly lovely face, and said, “Thirty seconds ago, you didn’t even know it was your desire.”

“Desire can come and go. If you can bend a bit, perhaps someday I may be able to thank you properly.”

If Crowley had been free to do so, he would have cackled and punched the air.

Huling took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “You’re very persuasive.”

“Let’s just say, temptation is not a foreign concept to me.”

Huling now whispered, “You’re beautiful and you know it.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well…”

“And you’ve got that voice.”

“It’s just a voice, my dear.”

“And you’re kind of a bastard, aren’t you?”

“I’m told I can be.”

“I wish I could say it was a turn-off.” With that, Huling turned and disappeared into the back room.

“Oh, you are so enjoying yourself,” Crowley said, in the same secretive voice. He got very close to Aziraphale, so that their lips were only a couple of centimetres apart. “Looking powerful actually makes you powerful, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, matching the tone.

“And this is a kind of power you’ve never much thought about having, isn’t it?”

“Listen, I want you to do something for me,” Aziraphale said, stepping back a bit.

“Anything, angel.”

“Go home. Look in the night stand on my side of the bed, and retrieve the Icicles box.”

Crowley’s blood pressure ramped up then, quite suddenly, and his body tightened even more. “The spade? Oh, angel, I adore the sound of that,” he practically moaned.

“Bring it, and a bit of slippery, back to the bookshop.”

Another hike in Crowley’s excitement. But he kept his voice low, sardonically aroused. “Okay, you’ve got it, you naughty thing. But why not just go home?”

“Because I want to be on my own turf,” Aziraphale said, with no hint of humour. “If this day and evening have been leading up to something, I finally know what it is. And I’m ready to have it. So go. Bookshop. One hour or less. I can’t wait forever.”

“Oh, indeed,” Crowley sang. Then he asked, “Will you be there alone when I get there, or are you thinking of inviting Mr. White Gold along?”

“Oh, for Somebody’s sake, Crowley, I’ll be alone. Good grief!”

“Ah. He’s just the fuel for the fire.”

“No, the fuel is ALL you, and you know it, you conniving old demon. Now go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, zero comments on the previous chapter. Are we not liking Aziraphale with a new look? Let me know your thoughts - it is HONESTLY what keeps me going! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	24. A Sturdy Faux-Antique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, Aziraphale had found a new sort of mojo with some new clothes (including teasing Huling the cheese shop owner just a bit). It was basically orchestrated by Crowley as a form of foreplay, and Aziraphale came to realise that it had all been leading somewhere. He had sent Crowley home to pick up their favourite sex toy, and said they would meet at the shop.
> 
> In this chapter, well, we see where it was all headed. Aziraphale takes the lead. NSFW goes without saying, I should think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about, in part, because I really felt that our boys needed a quality sex scene on the sofa in the bookshop. A story this long that ignores the sofa is not worth its salt! Enjoy!

Aziraphale walked the two blocks from Huling’s fromagerie, and entered his own shop feeling like a new man. He knew the feeling was superficial, a bit artificial, and temporary, but it didn’t matter. He was going to seize the moment, as a Man of the World might do.

He locked the door, pulled down all of the shades in the shop against prying eyes, and turned on the lights only in the area just to the left of the entrance, where he had a small alcove with a roll-top desk, a sofa, and coffee table.

He spent a bit of time surveying this little corner of existence where he had spent the better part of two centuries sitting. Observing. Reading. Learning. Fretting. Wondering. Desiring. Planning. Drinking. He had had to replace the desk chair twice since opening the shop – in 1882, and 1951. At those points in time, he had already done several small miracles to keep the piece of furniture together. He’d given up when there were more miracled joints than those held together with screws, and/or when the reclining spring had snapped for the second time.

Tonight, he reckoned the chair’s next replacement was coming due any day now. It had been almost seventy years, and he didn’t have the ability to miracle anything anymore.

The sofa’s upholstery had been replaced once, in 1909, when the original 1831 brocade had finally worn down so that the white linen cushion was showing through, and the goose feathers were poking out. And he had purchased an entirely new sofa in 1968 when one of the arms broke on the original. At that time, Aziraphale decided to put in its place a faux-antique, rather than try to find the genuine article. And then, around 1990, he had ordered a large Victorian-style Paisley throw from a local company that produced old-fashioned textiles, and tossed it over the sofa, to cover up the rapidly deteriorating faux-brocade seat. He’d taken these shortcuts because for one thing, he was immortal, and if he kept trying to find original Victorian items, eventually, they would all turn to dust. For another thing, Crowley spent a lot of time with his lovely arse parked on that sofa, and it was bound to suffer some wear and tear – best not drop a fortune on it.

On a night like this, he was glad he’d made that decision. It would be a shame to rattle loose the joints of a true antique.

The coffee table and desk, however, were original. He’d had both of them built by a fine woodworker in Central London in 1835, and they seemed to be indestructible – the result of extremely solid craftsmanship. And of course, tiny miracles to keep the roll-top moving smoothly and to hide small nicks. The coffee table, especially, was astonishing. Thousands of glasses and bottles of wine had been plunked down on it and moved about, not to mention tens of thousands of cups of coffee, tea, and cocoa. Probably hundreds of tumblers of Scotch, containers of take-out food, and Crowley’s computer. It was showing wear, of course, but it was a reliable piece, aged beyond what one would think just by looking… just like Aziraphale and Crowley themselves.

He heard a key slide into the lock, heard it twist open, then heard the bell. 

Crowley didn’t say anything, he simply appeared from behind a bookshelf with a small opaque plastic bag from Tesco. He set it down on the well-used coffee table with a ‘thunk.’

“What, you had a hankering for some Jammie Dodgers?” Aziraphale asked, with a cocked eyebrow.

“No, I found the Tesco bag in a kitchen drawer. Couldn’t see myself walking over from the carpark with a sex toy and a bottle of lube in my hand for all the world to see. Just seemed unnecessarily audacious, even for me.”

“I’m finding that, at the moment, I don’t care what anyone thinks. But I also know that in a little while, that feeling will have passed. So, you’re probably quite right.”

Crowley smirked, and sauntered up close. “You’re drunk on power. I could smell it on you at Huling's place.” And he leaned over to the right and planted a tiny kiss just below his lover’s ear. And then another just below that, and another just below that.

Heat rushed over Aziraphale, as well as relief. It had been a trying day for his libido and self-control, and after all these hours, he didn’t have to say “stop.”

“I finally understand what that phrase means,” Aziraphale commented. “'Drunk on power.' Even though you know those inhibitions are down for a very specific, somewhat ephemeral reason, it doesn’t stop you, and…”

His discourse was cut off by a human tongue, that was nevertheless quite snake-like, licking behind his ear.

“Quite right. It shouldn’t stop you,” Crowley agreed between tastes of Aziraphale’s flesh.

“Glad to hear you say that,” Aziraphale said. “Because I want you out of your clothes.”

Crowley was taken aback by this, and he stopped licking, to ask, “What?”

“You heard me. Get your kit off and sit down on that sofa.”

Without another word, and without breaking eye-contact, Crowley crossed his arms and grasped at the hem of his tee-shirt, pulling it up over his head in one stroke. “What about you?” he asked kicking off his shoes, and unbuckling his belt.

“I’ll keep mine on, for the time being,” Aziraphale answered, shoving his hands coolly in his pockets, watching, and enjoying, Crowley's stripping. “I think that will provide an impetus for us both.”

And once again, they were off to the races. It was to be another explosive shag after a long day of holding back.

Down to his bulging black boxer-briefs, Crowley asked, “Should I take these off too?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered, moving toward his desk chair. He turned it to face the sofa, and sat.

Crowley, with every stitch of his clothing now spread out over the bookshop floor, sat down, as asked, upon the divan where he had spent so many a philosophic evening, and faced his angelic partner.

Aziraphale leaned forward and picked up the Tesco bag, and removed the bottle of lubricant and set it on the table. Then, he removed the Icicles box, and opened it up, looking at the spade-shaped, glass anal plug inside. He shivered when he saw it, and a surge of excitement rattled within his veins.

“How long’s it been since you’ve had one of these inside you, Crowley?” he asked. “I’m making the assumption that you have.”

Crowley leaned back on the sofa in his usual position, leaning back, arms out to the sides over the back, legs spread. It was a tableau Aziraphale had viewed thousands of times, but the addition of Crowley’s stiff cock jutting up from his lap, and his lovely, tight bollocks hanging down between his legs, made the scene so very much more outrageous and enjoyable to the former angel’s eye.

He had the sudden urge to throw himself over the coffee table to kneel on the carpet between those perfectly-formed legs, and sheath that long, eager dick until his lips touched abdomen, but he refrained. He had other plans.

Crowley had leaned his head back to think. Then he said, “With another person, or on my own?”

Aziraphale smiled rather wickedly. “Both. Tell me both.”

“Well… okay, I know you didn’t ask, but the first time was with Dr. Young himself, the inventor of the Rectal Dilator, 1895,” Crowley said. “Although that wasn’t his real name, and believe me, his primary intent was NOT to create a medical instrument, but I digress. My last time with a real person was… well, sometime around 1930. California, during the Pansy Craze – it was a young performer named Gene Malin. And his boyfriend. Little did I know he couldn’t be tempted into anything because he did whatever the Hell he wanted, without my help.”

“Such as?”

“You really have to ask? Anal plug, boyfriend, 1930… plus, well, me?”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly, then asked, “And alone?”

“Mm, well, alone is a much different story,” Crowley lilted, beginning to lightly stroke his cock with two fingers along the underside. “I’m going to guess that it was 2013 or 14.”

“Crowley! We were both living in the Dowlings’ home at that time!”

“I know. Why do you think I always sat up so straight?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, and his breath quickened. “Are you serious?”

“No, not really. Would’ve been weird to stick a thing up my arse, and then be around the kid all day. I was a demon, not a pervert.”

“Thank goodness.”

“But I had a big red rubber plug that I used once in a while in my private room,” Crowley reported, his voice dropping low and becoming breathy and sensual, never stopping his teasing strokes along his own stiff cock. “Mm, it was nice… especially after a long dip in that posh soaking tub. Or during. But I was almost caught with it one evening, and… well, circumstances were such that I had to toss it out the window into a bush.”

“Oh! Oh dear God!”

“What?”

Aziraphale sat forward in his chair, and just for a moment, the classic, fretful Aziraphale was back in the driver’s seat. “There were chunks of red rubber all over the garden! The dog had got hold of something and tore it up, strewing pieces everywhere – we had no idea what it was, or where he’d got it! I was cleaning it up for a week!”

Crowley laughed. “Oh shit! I’m sorry!”

Aziraphale sat back in the chair and put back on his mild, sardonic smile, took the glass spade from the box, and said, “Well, you can apologise by showing me what you used to do with it. At least for a start. I’ll let you know when to deviate.”

“You, Aziraphale, are going to tell ME when to… deviate?”

“Yes. I’ll get you going.”

With that, he licked the glass plug from bottom to top, and whirled his tongue around the head.

Crowley threw his head back with an exasperated moan, consciously taking his hand away from his oozing dick.

Aziraphale set the spade down on the coffee table near Crowley, and motioned with his eyes.

“You want me to put on a show?” Crowley asked, with his trademark smirk.

“Yes. Problem with that?”

“Oh come on, don’t you know me but at all?”

Crowley reached forward and picked up the spade, and then, keeping eye-contact, expanded on what Aziraphale had done – licked it several times slowly, then inserted as much as he could into his mouth, moaning hungrily, moving it back and forth a few times, before removing it with a wet smack.

Aziraphale, for his part, sat coolly back in his chair, white-knuckling the armrests, his new trousers bulging like mad. The way his leather jacket hung at the moment seemed to display his groin, and highlight his newfound potency.

Crowley held the spade in his left hand and worked it over with his lips and tongue, while his right hand stroked his pulsating shaft, played with his balls, lazily stimulating him… and his partner.

Then he slumped down on the sofa, bringing his arse to the edge of the cushion. He used the spade to nonchalantly dip down below his bollocks, and lightly probe at the slit there. He moved it up and down gently, grazing his sensitive skin, closing his eyes, biting his lower lip, savouring the tease.

This went on for a minute or so, and he alternated between keeping his eyes shut, and using them to penetrate those of Aziraphale.

“You can practically feel that yourself, can’t you, angel?” he growled.

“I can,” Aziraphale said, steadily. “I’d like to see you spread, as you say, a bit of slippery over it. Do it slowly.”

Smiling slightly, but roguishly, Crowley leaned forward and took up the bottle of lube in his hand. He deposited an amount into his right palm that proved to be perfect, as though he knew exactly how much was needed, so as not to be excessively wet, or insufficiently so.

He held the base with his left hand, and stroked the spade, and its short shaft, slowly, as requested, with his right. He heard Aziraphale’s chair creaking under him, as his whole body shifted and tightened, and noticed his fingernails digging into the armrests even harder than before. His trousers seemed to be about to burst

“Like this?” Crowley asked, as much with his eyes as with his voice.

“Like that,” Aziraphale responded, swallowing hard, watching his lover’s hand slip steadily back and forth over the phallic object, and practically salivating with anticipation. With the skill he was displaying, it crossed Aziraphale’s mind that perhaps Crowley could make even the glass toy ejaculate…

That thought pushed a low groan through Aziraphale’s defences, and Crowley said, “I hear you, angel. It’s all right if you’d like to have a little stroke of your own. No-one would think less of you.”

The head of the spade was sliding through Crowley’s fist with rhythmic pulses, and Aziraphale’s eyes were locked on it. “Perhaps I will, in a bit.”

“Look at my hand, nice and slick, gripping that thing, up and down and over and over… don’t you wish that was you?”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said evenly. “And soon enough, it will be. But for now, Crowley… put your feet on the coffee table and show me that exquisite, rosy hole of yours.”

Crowley grabbed a throw pillow and put it behind his back in order to protect his neck from bending unnaturally, as he slid down even further. He did as he was instructed and placed the heels of his feet on the edge of the coffee table between them. His knees fell far to the sides, and he caught Aziraphale wetting his lips as his puckered rosebud came into view.

“Thinking of licking it?” he asked, mindlessly fondling his balls.

“Clearly, I am,” responded his partner. “I’m holding back from getting to my knees and burying my face in it.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The fact that just now, I would rather see it stuffed with that spade. I want to watch you take it all the way in – slowly.”

“Mm, angel,” Crowley moaned. “Your filthy wish is my command.”

And he reached down with his lubed-up right hand and played for a few moments at his own backdoor with his greasy fingers.

Just this was nearly enough to cause Aziraphale to lose himself…

And then, Crowley took up the spade again, aimed the head at himself, and pressed it against his opening. It felt divinely smooth and cold, and he took a deep breath, then relaxed into the exhale as he pushed it inside of himself, and the head popped past the ring.

“Slowly,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“There is no ‘slowly.’ It’s already in me.”

“Then try again until you’ve got it slow.”

Crowley removed the spade and tried again, pressing more gently, relaxing more languidly, enveloping the thing with his muscles, the way a snake devours a rodent…

“Try again,” Aziraphale ordered.

And so he did. And when his lovely, powerful angel requested it a third time, he did it again. And then a fourth.

“Now speed up,” said Aziraphale, eyes narrowing, glazing over with lust.

“Speed up? Like this?”

And Crowley began to move the spade in and out at a steady rate, fucking himself rather smoothly, like slow engine pistons.

“Yes. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting to do?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Fuck, yes,” Crowley moaned, his eyes sliding shut, mouth going slack. “Oh angel, this feels… ugh…”

It was now just Crowley’s wrist moving up and down, filling his arse with hard, smooth pleasure, then removing it again, only to slide it back inside… over and over. Aziraphale watched for just a few moments, musing, admiring his lover’s perfect, sinewy body and how skilfully he took this pleasure. Crowley didn’t flinch at being penetrated, nor spreading his legs and putting on a show, nor at taking direction, as it turned out. He seemed to be rather enjoying it, as a matter of fact. 

“And you call me a slut,” Aziraphale muttered, drooling at the sight, listening to the fantastic groans and filthy expletives tumbling from his partner’s talented mouth. He fantasised about his own dick being that spade, and how much deeper into Crowley he could get… but he had other plans for himself. It was his turn now.

Crowley was so blinded with Aziraphale’s dirty command, and got so lost that he hadn’t noticed Aziraphale standing up and removing his clothes.

The next thing he knew, he heard, “Get ready to stop, Crowley,” coming from above him. His eyes flew open, and his very potent partner was standing within arm’s reach, having already shed his nylon tee-shirt and shoes, and now unbuckling his new calfskin belt. He pushed his trousers down to his knees, and a swollen, rock-hard cock jumped out of its clothing, oozing precome, and seemingly ready to burst.

“Tell me when,” Crowley said, softly, now making eye contact as he sheathed and unsheathed the glass toy within his stretched arsehole.

“That’ll do, then,” Aziraphale said, stepping out of the last of his clothing. “Leave it in. Now tend to me with your fingers, if you please.”

He knelt on the floor and bent the top half of his body over the coffee table, placing his bum in the air, available for the taking. Crowley only had to lean forward for the lube and drizzle a bit over Aziraphale’s own “exquisite, rosy hole” and reach out to his right to press his fingers inside. Aziraphale let out a sharp exhale when he felt two of his lover’s digits cross over the ring, and bury themselves as deeply as they could go.

“Good? Or painful?” Crowley wondered.

“Good. Now stretch me . And not slowly this time.”

Crowley did his best to make quick work of readying Aziraphale for whatever he had in mind – which Crowley hoped was a hard, loud, dissolute arse-pounding that would break the furniture…

But equally delightful was when, after giving him a four-finger fucking for several minutes, and listening to those incredibly lovely, slutty groans, Crowley heard him say, “All right, enough. On your back, you old demon.”

Crowley didn’t have to be told twice. He turned sideways, and laid out as flat as he could on the faux-antique sofa. He had to bend his knees a bit, in order to fit.

But Aziraphale gently guided his feet to the floor, and crawled over him like a lion claiming its prey. He straddled his speechless lover, then reached back, and grasped Crowley’s impatient dick with one hand, steadied himself by holding onto the back of the sofa with the other, and guided the bulbous purple head to his stretched-out hole. He eased himself down with a series of obscene moans, filling himself completely. He allowed his weight to rest fully on Crowley’s pelvis, thus pushing more of the pulsating shaft into his tight passage. Both of them groaned, cursed, and felt prickles all over.

And then Aziraphale began to ride it. Slowly at first. Up and down, using his considerable thigh muscles, and bracing against the sofa back. He stared into his lover’s brown eyes, and milked his cock, grinding down on it, then rising up again…

Crowley moaned, “Oh, fuck yeah, angel. Pump it… you can pump it dry with that tight little arse, do you know that?”

Aziraphale reached back with his free hand and began to toy with the base of the spade, currently lodged in Crowley’s back passage. Just a little tug, a little nudge just so, the right sort of pressing against THAT spot, seemed to send sparks flying. Crowley’s back arched and his voice penetrated the space like fabric ripping. Still flying high on power, Aziraphale did it again, only wiggled the base of the spade and vibrated it against the swollen prostate, Crowley’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body sparked and flooded with fire, he blasphemed, and pumped his hips up into Aziraphale’s bum.

“Ooh, it appears you like that little manipulation, my love,” Aziraphale sang.

“Y…yeah… erm… I…” Crowley slurred.

“If I continue to play with it, you’ll be a good boy and fill up my arse with your come, won’t you?”

Crowley’s senses seemed to blur and he spat, “Fuck, angel!”

“Won’t you?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, yes!”

There, they found a rhythm. Crowley became incredibly impatient. Aziraphale became hungry for more of this power, though the way he felt right now, he knew it couldn’t last much longer…

Aziraphale rode harder, faster. Crowley thrusted up and down. Their bodies slapped against each other, eyes locked together, and their groans of obscene words and commands, and each other’s names, entwined in the space like music.

Aziraphale kept one hand engaged in teasing Crowley’s arsehole with a glass phallus, and Crowley thought his entire lower half might collapse from the pressure. 

Crowley engaged one hand in wanking the stiff, suffering cock that had been bobbing against his belly delightfully, hoping now to make it burst, give him a spectacular show, and a terrible, milky mess across his chest.

“Come on, angel, don’t hold back,” Crowley panted. “Ride that cock as hard as you can, then shoot all over me. Do it!”

“I will… it’s going to be soon… soon…”

“I’ll give you mine if you give me yours. Come for me, angel!”

And that’s when Aziraphale’s voice began to ramp up high, with cries of “Ah! Ah!” growing in pitch until his body did what it was supposed to, and spurted thick white cream onto Crowley’s chin and neck, and finished by spilling onto his stomach and fist. At the same time, he heard Crowley groan again and again. He bore down hard and felt his lover’s long shaft pulsing hard as it pumped jet after jet of warm, milky satisfaction into his gripping, waiting arse. 

The moments of orgasm seemed to stop time.

The high-strung, electric sensations almost felt, in those ten-or-so seconds, like they would never die down, to allow the lovers to return to normal.

But of course, they did. Aziraphale leaned forward, and the pair shared a passionate kiss that would have, on any other night, been the prelude to their tryst, not the postlude. But there they were, lips and tongues tangoing, loving, searching…

Aziraphale pulled away after a minute or two, and held himself up on one arm. 

“That was…” Crowley breathed.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

Crowley began to laugh, as he often did in the afterglow. “Holy shit, Aziraphale!”

“Drunk on power, you said. Goodness, I hate to see what the hangover will be like.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

They were careful when they stood up, not to cause their usual messy problems, and produce more dry-cleaning.

Aziraphale marvelled as he picked up his clothes, “I was right: that’s one Hell of a sturdy sofa. I must say, I’ve had my money’s worth on that piece of furniture.”

“You’ve got a good eye. The table in the back of the shop held up, and now this. Bravo. I suppose that means you should choose the dining set, once we move.”

“Move?”

“Yeah. Well, not right this second, but we did talk about it…” Crowley said, now collecting his own tee-shirt and jeans from the floor.

They used the washroom in the flat upstairs to clean themselves up, but deemed the place too cold and dusty to spend the night. So they cleaned the spade and returned it to its box, put it back in the bag with the lubricant, got dressed, and went home. 

“Do you know what I’d like?” Aziraphale asked, pulling the car door shut, and fastening his seatbelt.

“Oh, I always love these moments,” Crowley said, pulling out of the parking space. “What would you like, angel?”

“I’d like to do that again. Only, I’d like to… well, switch roles, as it were.”

“You’ll show me how you did it? How you put in the spade for me before that filthy ravioli dinner you ate in front of me?”

“If you’d desire it, yes. But more to the point, erm…” He paused, and folded his hands primly in his lap.

Crowley laughed. “Angel, you never cease to befuddle me! Once again, you have just orchestrated for me a mind-blowing sexual encounter, and now it’s an hour and a half later, and you’re going to be a Princess about saying the naughty words?”

“I’m sorry, I appear to have retreated into my former mode.”

“And yet, you’re still thinking about the next time we get naked and sweaty together.”

“A man can have fantasies, can he not?” 

“He can. All right, fair enough. I’ll let you know when I’m in the mood to watch you bury that spade in your bum, then ride you like a pony. A slutty pony.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Good. Then, it’s settled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, since I've got you here, thinking about smut, I've got a question:
> 
> I've received a number of indicators that y'all might like to see a THREESOME with our boys, and probably the cheese shop owner. Do you really mean that, or are you just being cheeky? I ask because part of me would really love to write it, but part of me feels it might taint their relationship (or this version of their relationship) if they allowed someone else into it.
> 
> I have re-outlined the story to accommodate it, and I think I've found a way to wrap things up in the next 5-or-so chapters, that is meaningful for us, the readers, as well as for Aziraphale, Crowley, and even Huling. But is that what you want?
> 
> In the comments, please let me know! I'm giving you the opportunity to "Choose Your Own Adventure," as it were... what say you? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	25. Adoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Aziraphale's favourite creature comforts gets shared with his loved ones as our quirky quartet attend the London Philharmonic. One of them is wearing a well-fitted black Armani suit, new tie, and is dripping with sex, flash, and attitude. (Well, more so than usual.) As a result, there are big feels everywhere, and Anathema can read them all like a very entertaining book.
> 
> She also puts an idea into Aziraphale's head that could be a game-changer for him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1) Regarding the previous chapter: I realized at some point that in my shuffling around of text between my laptop, phone, e-mail, etc. so that I can work on editing in different places, that I did create a version of the previous chapter in which they actually sit down and partake of the exotic cheeses they bought from Craig Huling. However, that version got lost somewhere, and it didn't occur to me that the chapter is odd without it, until it was kind of too late. So, if the trip to the cheese shop seemed superfluous and cruel to poor Mr. Huling, it wasn't intended that way. At least not by me. Crowley is another matter.
> 
> 2) Regarding this chapter: I know that 'The Rite of Spring' has a specific story that goes with the music, and gets more or less acted out by dancers and sets when the ballet is mounted. But the analysis I give here is (yes, pretentious but) my own. I hope it doesn't bore you too much. I've tried to combine the 'real' intentions of the piece with my own impressions, in order to justify some stuff that happens later in the chapter.
> 
> No smut, just the suggestion of it...
> 
> Enjoy!

The Southbank Centre a complex of facilities along the Thames, designed, as are many great things in London, to attract revenue to the city, as well as general interest in the arts. Aziraphale had spent quite a bit of time in the Centre since its inception in 1951, but had never been here with Crowley.

They had agreed to meet Anathema and Newt at a bench on the promenade in front of Royal Festival Hall, home to the London Philharmonic, ninety minutes before the event began. They were scheduled to have a pre-performance drink, the four of them, at one of the restaurants on the ground floor of the Hall, directly behind where Aziraphale was currently sitting.

He was back in his own, usual Victorian clothes, and seated in his own, usual position: hands in his lap, good posture, on the right side of the bench. Crowley, though, instead of sitting on the left as he usually did, was on his feet, pacing slowly back and forth, keeping his eyes peeled in all directions for their friends. 

Aziraphale’s eyes, however, were on Crowley.

He was, of course, dressed in the impeccably-tailored suit they had picked up from Harrod’s that morning: the Armani G-line, black, potent, modern, fit him like a glove. They had also purchased (after alterations) the blinding white dress shirt, which he now wore with the black, red, and gold, aggressively reptilian tie. Capping off the package were a specially-chosen pair of shoes, perfectly-coiffed red hair, sunglasses, hands in pockets, and an easy, slinky way of moving. The tableau gave Aziraphale shivers, and he could not tear his eyes away.

The Centre was just a little over a mile from the flat, so they had decided to walk. Strolling across the Golden Jubliee Bridge, and walking down the steps onto the promenade, Aziraphale’s chest had nearly burst. It hadn’t hurt at all that Crowley had chosen that moment to take his hand, and smile at him fondly. It had been such an incredible coup to walk into the Centre this way - attached, and quite obviously together. Crowley turned heads quite often, but today, he seemed to them like a screwdriver - heads of people from all walks of life. 

He had obviously noticed Crowley being noticed before; as a literal purveyor of temptation for six millennia, of course he was magnetic. But today, things were different. Aziraphale had received a shot in the arm of confidence this past week… it appeared that Crowley had, as well. Not that he had needed it.

It was validating, this proof that he wasn’t just moony-eyed, not just in love, not just looking through six-thousand-year-old, rose-coloured glasses: Crowley was properly coveted. He, Aziraphale, had something that other people wanted! In fact, Aziraphale had had to decide whether to perch somewhere to watch his lover move, or be seen moving with him – yet another decadent choice in this pleasure pursuit. He reckoned he could do both, over the course of the evening.

Newt and Anathema walked around the corner from the south, indicating they had parked in the structure.

Anathema was dressed true to form in an expensive, velveteen and satin, ankle-length coat-dress, of a dark bluish green that complemented her complexion, and had about a thousand buttons up the front. It was half period-costume, and half elegant chic. Aziraphale admired it quite a lot, and wondered if there was a halfway-point for men as well. He resolved to talk with her about it in the near future.

Newt, however, was wearing a charcoal-grey blazer (much like one Crowley might wear), and his hair had been spiked in the front. His shirt was a standard white button-up, and his trousers were basically black Dockers. He was trying, but he still looked awkward.

He was also wearing sunglasses, but that might have been only because it was bright, as the sun was just now falling behind Parliament.

He peered unabashedly over the lenses at Crowley and exclaimed, “Good grief, mate, you look amazing.”

Crowley held both hands out in a casual shrug, and said, “Thanks. New jacket?”

“Yeah. Do you like it?” Newt asked him, delighted.

“Very nice start, Breaks-Things Guy,” Crowley answered with a smirk.

Newt smiled in a way that reminded Crowley a bit of Aziraphale when he was complimented, but had no idea how to react.

“So, Armani?” Anathema asked the man in the suit.

“Of course,” Crowley said, as though wondering how she could be so daft.

“Also very nice, Not-A-Demon Guy,” she said with a smile. Then she turned to Newt. “It gives us something new to work with.”

He frowned at her, a bit embarrassed.

They all turned toward the building, and made their way to the restaurant where they had agreed to have drinks.

“So, how’s the car?” Crowley asked Newt, who walked alongside him. They chatted, while their partners fell into step behind them.

“Wow! That suit!” Anathema whispered to Aziraphale. “I feel like I shouldn’t look directly at it.”

“I know. I think it’s rather a dangerous thing,” Aziraphale said, without thinking, and eyeing Crowley as he walked behind. 

"Dangerous. Really?" Anathema asked him, singing the words a bit, and smirking.

He became slightly flustered. “I mean, in the sense that Crowley hardly needed an excuse to feel and act more audacious. Crowley in Armani is like adding gold leaf to an already decadent cheese - I’m afraid it might become rather an expensive habit.”

She looked him over exaggeratedly. “I see. I thought you meant ‘dangerous’ in the sense that it’ll have you on your knees in the gents’ during intermission.”

Aziraphale sighed. “So I'm bright red and throbbing again.”

“Like a ripe tomato with a pulse."

“Should I even pretend to be surprised or appalled that you’d say these things?”

“Save your energy, sweetie,” she said, grabbing onto his arm, and resting her head affectionately on his shoulder.

\-------------------------------------------------

The restaurant/bar was busy, so when Newt and Crowley went up to the bar to retrieve four cocktails, the psychic and the former angel had a fair bit of time to talk.

“So, am I to understand that buying that suit was one of the more significant events of the week?” she asked.

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale told her. “It was definitely an interesting day.”

“A bright red and throbbing sort of day?”

“Well… yes. For both of us. You might be interested to know that we purchased some new accoutrements for me, as well. Modern ones.”

“Really?” she asked, delighted.

“Yes. Apparently, it’s the twenty-first century now… had you heard?” He giggled at this.

She laughed in turn. “I had, actually. Though, I’m like you – modern clothes are just soulless.”

“That’s what I thought, but Crowley actually managed to find me some very fine garments that did wonders for me. You’ll get to see them next week at the Seen Queen recital.”

“It’s a concert,” she corrected. “And it sounds like you guys had a lovely day shopping.”

“Well, Crowley turned the whole thing into a burlesque, by making me leave the store wearing the new clothes, and with the champagne, and telling me to demand things, and involving Craig Huling…”

“Who’s Craig Huling?”

He looked at her with surprised worry, somewhat unable to believe he had said the name out loud in front of her. Rather quickly, and with exasperation, he told Anathema the brief story of Huling: frequenting his shop over the past few years, being propositioned by him, Crowley joking (but only sort of) about having him on holiday with them, tempting him into selling them a larger quantity of White Gold cheese, and ending with the post-coital conversation he and Crowley had had about inviting Huling in to sample the Colheita.

“He joked about having a ménage à trois with this guy?” Anathema asked, simply to clarify. Azirapahale detected no judgement in her voice (and he was a master at detecting judgement).

“Yes.”

“And a couple nights ago, he started beating that drum again?”

“Yes, if I can read his innuendos. And I believe I can. It's not like they're subtle.”

“Are you afraid that Crowley likes this guy just a bit too much?”

“No, I’m not. It’s just…”

“Well, that’s good, because I’d have to tell you that you’re crazy, because it’s Crowley, and it’s you, and come on, now,” she commented. Then she said, “Well, far be it from me to tell a six-thousand-year-old man what to think, but if it were me, I’d consider it.”

“Consider what?”

“Inviting Huling in… seeing what happens. You know, we all have needs and desires that deserve to be at least heard out by the people who love us most.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times with realisation, and said, “Well, it’s hard to argue with that.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged.

\---------------------------------------------

The four of them had their drinks, and then made their way up to the Mezzanine, chattering away, each couple holding hands like adolescents. Aziraphale, once again, could not contain his almost indecent pride over being the one standing, walking, sitting beside Crowley. He had conflicting desires of wanting both to keep his partner in that suit forever, and wanting to slowly peel it off him until they were both vibrating with anticipation. 

He had thoughts of both, and had to consciously shake them off, in order to keep himself grounded in the moment. He knew that everything he was feeling was like a neon sign to Anathema, but perhaps tonight, it might be a neon sign to everyone who looked at the two of them. Although, perhaps tonight, he realised, he was rather glad of everyone knowing about it.

“’The Rite of Spring’ is divided into two parts: The Adoration of the Earth, and The Sacrifice,” Aziraphale whispered, now seated in a front-row Mezzanine seat between Crowley and Newt. 

“The Adoration of the Earth,” Crowley mused. “Can’t fault anyone for that.”

“It was written as a ballet, and was harshly criticized upon its première as a wanton, pagan piece of art,” he continued, more for Newt’s benefit than anyone else’s. “And of course, social mores have relaxed over time, and it has become one of the most influential pieces of music of the twentieth century – at least, influential as far as its own ilk, I suppose – but it is still quite outside of the traditional, classical paradigm. It is definitely still possible to hear its experimental nature.”

“I’ll take your word,” Newt said, uneasily. “I know virtually nothing about music. I’ve never even attended a live performance before – I’m just happy to be here at all.”

Aziraphale patted his hand, and settled into his seat with a wiggle of his bottom as the concert hall darkened.

“Lights are down, angel. Want to have a snog?” came the breathy voice, right into his left ear.

“Shush, you. We’re here to appreciate the music,” Aziraphale answered, with a coy smile and a frisson shimmering up and down his spine.

A single, soft woodwind began the Introduction, and a melancholy, but hopeful, melody emerged. It suggested morning uncovering itself after the dark of night. Within two minutes, there was a veritable orgy of woodwinds – no particular rhythm, but the original melody still underlying it. Toward the end of the Introduction, the winds and brass proclaimed the new day, almost in a reveille-style, then sliding back into the original melody, but with accents of string instruments being plucked ever so lightly…

Those light plucks segued quite suddenly into a deep, booming rhythmic pulse of bass and cello. When Crowley had discussed the pounding, insistent nature of the music and upper-crust women of the early twentieth century clutching at their pearls, this was the bit he’d meant.

He leaned his head in and asked Aziraphale, “Are you scandalised?”

“Shh.”

Crowley then reached his hand over and rested it on Aziraphale’s thigh and squeezed. And suddenly, movement II of ‘The Rite of Spring’ took on a whole new meaning.

Some high-pitched woodwind work cut across the rhythmic strings, like screams, or big flashes of light, shocking in places. Each phrase of music was a message…

Movements III and IV provided a softer rhythm, but still reflective of the beats of life, love, youth. Movements V and VI returned to more upbeat themes, brass instruments, loud and celebratory. But the theme was more in the spirit of revelry – festivity, dancing, song. Movement VII was a segue back into brassy, seismic violence, passionate, grounding, Earthy.

Part 2’s Introduction began with a gentle rhythm, swelling into a fleshy, dramatic version of itself, and ending with some lighter-hearted flute work – soaring notes, hanging like clouds. Movement II had some experimental, dissonant chords, but overall, a heartfelt bit of music, easy on the ears and soul. It was another section in which every musical phrase seemed to be speaking its truth.

Movement III in part 2 was quite famous. The hard, driving rhythm returned, coupled with some truly surprising, experimental rhythms, quite jarring to a human who wants to identify a time signature (even when one does not know what a time signature is). The violent up-and-down of brass, strings and percussion was reminiscent of blood spilled, or disaster tearing through.

The entire piece lasted no more than thirty-five minutes. The traditional classical repertoire was hinted at, and certainly an impish nature came through in Stravinsky’s revolutionary creation, but one thing was clear throughout: the gut-level, visceral, pulse of life, Earth, humanity. It was a pulse upon which Crowley and Aziraphale had had their fingers, even as supernatural beings.

And it was almost as if that pulse had its fingers on them tonight.

As the music ended they looked at each other, both with the same breathless disbelief in their eyes. They both stood with the rest of the audience and applauded. Aziraphale leaned over and said, “I’ve heard it before, of course, but this might have been the first time I’ve fully appreciated it.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, angel.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Anathema Device enjoyed few things more than reading people. Their auras were telling, of course, but coupled with body language, voice intonation, Freudian slips and the like, there were certain people who might as well rent out space and run adverts about themselves. Even (or perhaps especially) Aziraphale, who had spent millennia repressing his feelings, and never saying what he meant.

The first segment of the evening was, of course, ‘The Rite of Spring,’ which was less than thirty-five minutes long from beginning to end. There would be two more segments, two more Stravinsky masterpieces with two intermissions – the first was to be a twenty-minute break, the second was to be ten.

Crowley was seated on the aisle, so he stepped out first when the lights came on, buttoned up his suit coat, like the debonair bad boy that he was, and addressed the group of them, “Well, I need to visit the loo.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale was quick to agree. Uncomfortably, he added, “These blasted bodies.”

“Me too,” Newt chimed in.

“No, you don’t,” she said, grabbing his hand.

“What?”

“Or, if you do, then whichever bathroom they go to, choose a different one. You’ll thank me later,” she instructed him, under her breath.

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

By then, Crowley and Aziraphale had disappeared from the vicinity, and Anathema had seen them leave the room through the door at the top of the aisle, the naughty former demon leading his companion by the hand.

“Well, now how am I supposed to know where they’ve gone?”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get some drinks.”

“Drinks? Instead of a trip to the toilet? Yes, very practical,” he commented.

And so, they got drinks. They purchased four red wines, and drank two of them at a high cocktail table, while discussing the music. Newt had definitely noticed a couple of movements, quite famous patches of music that had been used in ‘Fantasia,’ and other pop culture phenomena.

“Those bits are distinctive to the human spirit, because they mimic our heartbeats when we are aroused, excited, frightened, and whatnot. It’s the power of humanity, the power of the Earth,” Anathema told him, quite seriously. "And it's clearly gotten under Aziraphale and Crowley's skins."

Newt’s eyebrows went up, and he looked at her with a bit of wonder. “Wow. Sometimes I forget who you are.”

They made their way back to their seats in the auditorium with two untouched glasses of wine when a dual-tone alarm went off, signalling three minutes until the second set. 

This time, Newt went down the row first, placing them in opposite seats from each other, as compared to where they had begun. This was not discussed, just accepted.

“Where are they?” Newt asked, sitting down, noticing that the two seats on the aisle were empty, and their friends were nowhere to be seen. “They’re going to miss the beginning.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be heartbroken,” she said, patting him on the leg.

The orchestra returned to their seats, and the conductor emerged last, and there was applause. They spent about twenty seconds tuning their instruments, and then Stravinsky’s Symphony in E Flat began its intriguing first movement.

It wasn’t until almost ten minutes into the piece that the door at the top of the Mezzanine opened, and two men stepped through. Anathema, like many people, turned to look, but she was the only one who did not take her eyes immediately off them. She was also the only one who smiled upon seeing them, rather than frowning and wondering what the Hell was wrong with them.

One of the men was dressed, of course, in a fastidiously put-together Victorian ensemble, the other in a tightly-fitted black Armani suit. Both of them, however, had a bright pink, and glittering gold aura. She watched them as they made their way down the aisle, softly apologising to people, and sat down in the two seats at the end of the row. 

Anathema handed the glass of wine in her hand across to Crowley, and Newt handed his to Aziraphale.

“Figured you might not have time to grab drinks,” she whispered to Aziraphale.

“Yes, thank you so much,” he said, taking a sip. “Sorry we’re late. Something… er…”

“Came up?” she asked.

“Er, yes.”

“What, did you guys meet the conductor, and get offered the opportunity to visit backstage?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Well… yes, erm…"

She chuckled. “Oh, shut up. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to, Mister Pink-Aura-Post-Orgasmic-Gold-Glow?”

That was when the woman behind them shushed them, Anathema chuckled again, they turned their attention back to Stravinsky. All in one go, Aziraphale downed most of the rest of the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things:  
> 1) Of course, please leave a comment! I don't hear from very many people, and comments are always a pick-me-up!
> 
> 2) As you can see, I'm still sort of working on the threesome-with-Huling idea, as is Aziraphale. He and I are both grappling with it, but leaning towards a 'yes,' but it has to be organic, and we can't have it damaging anything.
> 
> 3) Don't worry - we WILL get to see what happened with our boys during intermission! ;-) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	26. Desires That Deserve To Be Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffable friends are at the symphony, Crowley is wearing Armani, and Aziraphale is breathless over it! He's loving the attention his partner gets, and the envy in the eyes of others. 
> 
> During the second set of music, Anathema noticed a certain pink and gold aura around our favourite duo, indicating what they had been doing during intermission.
> 
> This is the story of that intermission. It's very, very smutty, yes, but there's also some new "relationship" stuff introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular bout of smut sees Crowley being rather naughtily verbose (as they both sometimes can be), and laying on the temptation routine pretty damned thick. But it's on a particular topic. And on that topic, don't worry... they will go a lot further in the way of actual "discussion" before taking any more steps forward!
> 
> And a quick note to Americans: please keep in mind that public toilet stalls the world over generally provide a lot more privacy than those in the U.S. Crowley and Aziraphale would 100% surely be caught in the States. In Europe (UK included) stall walls go all the way to the floor, and all the way to the ceiling, and there aren't little slats between panels where you can accidentally see in.
> 
> However, apparently, the toilets in Royal Festival Hall are dreadful (thank you, Yelp). But we're going to pretend that that's not the case.
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley had managed to plunder through the crowd at intermission efficiently enough to beat most everyone to the toilets. Only two of the cubicles were occupied when they arrived, so they hurried and grabbed one, toward the end of a row. One bloke entering behind them saw them both disappear behind the same door, but they reckoned that by the time they were finished, that guy would be gone. They just hoped he wouldn’t report them.

Aziraphale locked the door, and put his back against it. Crowley wasted no time pressing into him, tonguing his earlobe, and whispering, “The music got under your skin, did it?”

“Yes, quite. Crowley, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I’ve got under your skin a bit, too, eh?” Crowley chuckled. "More than usual?"

“One might say that.”

“I could make you do anything now, couldn’t I?”

“You could.”

“Shit, if I’d known that, I would’ve put on an Armani suit and mindfucked you with Stravinsky years ago.”

The harsh language and low, low tones inflamed the imperfect former angel as usual, and he groaned slightly, swallowed hard, and said, “Well, it’s now. And I’m yours.”

“Yeah?" Crowley asked, grinding his pelvis and stiffening cock against him. "Good. How badly do you want to unzip these trousers?”

“Badly.”

“Then do it," Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale’s hands went immediately to his lover’s belt, and began to pull it loose, then to unhook the precisely-tailored trousers. He reached greedily inside after the zip came down, and grasped a throbbing member, aching within the confines of a tight suit and expensive silk pants. The entire time, he was being penetrated by a pair of razor-sharp brown eyes, and a smirk across a pair of achingly tempting lips.

Those lips pushed against his as his hand moved up and down over Crowley’s shaft, followed by a long, hungry tongue snaking against his. Their mouths were open to each other, sucking, dancing, wanting. Aziraphale stroked, and Crowley moaned.

Crowley pulled away, when he knew that his lover would be breathless with the wet, searching snog, and smiled. He examined Aziraphale’s lips, and kissed them once more, just for a second. Then, again. Then again, and again.

“Blimey, I can’t seem to stop,” he whispered. Then he kissed them again. And then, he slowed his movements, leaned forward and licked the slightly-parted lips very lightly, and sighed, “Mmm, love that mouth. I want it.”

“Want… my mouth?”

“Mm-hm, angel. Get on your knees.”

Crowley had to step back to make room, and his calves were pressed against the toilet, but Aziraphale obeyed. “You… you want my mouth… you’re going to…”

“Have it, yes. I’m going to have you. In the mouth. Understand?” Crowley asked him, harshly, as his right hand wrapped tightly around the back of his lover’s head.

“Oh, I do.”

“Excellent.” Crowley's free hand held his own hard dick, and guided it between Aziraphale’s parted lips. He pulled the angelic head hard against his body, and grunted at the sensation of his mushroomed cockhead burying itself in his companion’s tight, willing throat. “Fuck, that feels good, angel.”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale responded, as Crowley’s palms made their way to his jowls, and his fingers wrapped round under his ears. Aziraphale looked up, and saw miles and miles of sexy black suit, capped by the gorgeously flushed face of an erstwhile demon in the throes of desire.

Crowley’s fingertips dug into Aziraphale’s flesh, and began to move his head back and forth, his hips began to thrust, finding a rhythm and depth that suited him. He sighed, “Mm, yes." He grunted each time he watched his cock disappear on the other side of the tight pink lips.

Both of Aziraphale’s hands found Crowley’s bum, squeezed and pushed, assisting the driving pelvis, and relishing in the sinews and muscles flexing inside the accommodating black Armani trousers.

And all around them, men moved in and out of cubicles. Doors, slammed, toilets flushed, voices and laughter echoed.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley moaned, just so his partner could hear. “Getting sucked off is one thing, but this is a whole different thing. Ughhh….”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale agreed, his lips getting repeatedly forced against Crowley’s body, his throat repeatedly penetrated, all of it outside of his control. Though he did continue squeezing the tight, flexing bum with both hands.

Crowley was looking down, not wanting to miss a single moment of this. They made eye-contact now, and Crowley smiled wickedly. “You like this?”

In answer, Aziraphale’s eyes closed languidly, and he moaned around the rigid pole impaling his mouth over and over. Eventually his eyes re-met those of his lusty companion.

“Listen to all those people around us,” Crowley continued. “You wish they could see you, don’t you?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes diffidently then, and he answered, “Mm,” non-committally.

A pair of feet shuffled in the cubicle next to theirs, and the door slammed. The man called out something, and a friend answered him unintelligibly from another cubicle.

People moved in and out, and Aziraphale randomly wondered if any of them had seen the two of them together on the promenade, and had their heads turned by the spectacle of Crowley.

“Oh, you know you do,” Crowley insisted, slamming his shaft hard into Aziraphale’s throat, and holding the curly-haired head against his body for a few moments, driving his point home. “I see you preening like a fucking peacock, just at the opportunity to walk beside me, let people see you with me.”

He released the super-tight grip. Aziraphale whined a bit, but then looked up again, into those penetrating brown eyes, and he nodded subtly.

“I could reach forward and throw open this door. There are men standing about just on the other side, and they would all see you on your knees getting your mouth fucked. By me.”

Another whine came from below, that was nevertheless tinged with desire. 

This was when Crowley’s fingers tightened, and his thrusting became quite intense. Aziraphale felt his partner’s entire body tighten, and become impatient.

“What would they say, angel? What would they think of you?”

Another groan came from the man on his knees.

“They would know that you’re mine, Aziraphale, wouldn’t they? Yes, they would. They would see me here, in an appalling place and time, having you the way I want, and they would know that I can’t keep my hands off you, can’t keep my dick out of you,” Crowley continued, breathlessly, now jerking his hips hard, his companion’s curls entwined between his tight fingers. “That you’re not just the one who gets to go places on my arm, but the one who gets to have me inside, and have his holes filled…”

“Mmm, mmm…”

Crowley was now panting, still speaking, but on the edge of choking. “And they would know how fucking spectacular you are, too. You’ve got my cock in your mouth, but you’ve also got my attention. And my love. And no-one else can say the same, and the two of us, we make people squirm, and turn green with jealousy, and… ugh!”

Crowley's cock began to spasm and spurt without proper warning, and he had to bite his tongue hard, in order not to give himself away to the men outside the door, all bustling around, who had foolishly come to Royal Festival Hall merely to hear the Philharmonic. Aziraphale tasted salty, heavy cream splashing across his tongue, then promptly felt it forced down his throat as Crowley thrusted fiercely, and the bulbous cockhead became buried once more. Crowley throbbed, grunted, swore, and then seemed to collapse and brace himself against the cubicle wall. Just for a moment, then he stood up straight.

“Come here,” he said, grabbing Aziraphale by the lapel, and pulling him to his feet. He turned them both to his right and slammed him against the wall, plunging his tongue ravenously into the very mouth that had just accommodated copious jets of his come.

“Hey, mate, you all right?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the wall.

Crowley finished tasting his own emissions in his companion’s mouth, then called out, “Yeah, sorry – lost my balance.”

By the time the man answered with a chuckle, Crowley’s tongue was already back in Aziraphale’s mouth, relishing the last of the salt, and moving once more against a pair of lips that he had admired for time immemorial.

“Love, love, love that mouth,” he muttered. “You know I could fuck it better, properly, at home.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes. With a bed and some room to move, some time to work with, angel, you’ll wonder if your lips and throat were actually made for it.”

“You’ll have to show me,” Aziraphale said, his voice shaky with desire.

“I will,” Crowley promised. “It’s only too bad that I can’t fuck it and kiss it at the same time.”

With that, he plunged his tongue in again, and sucked heartily, as though still, inexplicably, starving.

When he pulled away next, Aziraphale commented, “I think that would require some rather impossible acrobatics, or, dare I say, a third person.”

“Do you dare say?”

“I did dare, didn’t I?"

"You did. Shall I dismiss it as simply filthy pillow talk from my logophile angel?"

"Well, Anathema got me thinking, Crowley…” Aziraphale began, not unaware that this might be an awkward time for a complex discussion about their relationship. 

A two-tone bell sounded then, signalling three minutes until the next Stravinsky piece, interrupting him.

All around them, people began to move faster, the water ran, paper towel came off the spool rather roughly, men spat expletives in response to the time crunch.

“Got you thinking what?”

“We’re going to miss the beginning,” Aziraphale whispered.

“We can go back to our seats now, if you want,” Crowley offered, with a sardonic smile, knowing what the answer would be.

“No… I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be able to…”

“No, of course not,” Crowley lilted, turning Aziraphale’s body completely around, and then taking him by the haunches and moving him even further to the right, to face the toilet. Crowley was now standing behind, and was in a perfect position to pull back on the collar, and remove the centuries-old coat his partner wore. He hung it on the hook beside the door, and into Aziraphale’s ear, he whispered, “Undo your trousers, angel.”

Aziraphale obeyed, and Crowley took the opportunity to slide both hands down inside the fine linen pants, and feel soft, round flesh greet his palms.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, now conscious of the fact that there were only a few men left in the washroom, and his voice could be much more easily heard, in absence of a din. “Stop playing games, and do what you’re going to do. You’re driving me mad.”

Crowley squeezed one perfect bum-cheek, and growled, “Come on, we both know you’re a slut, so be one. Ask for what you want.”

“Make me come hard, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, quietly. “I don’t care how you do it, just get me off like a bottle rocket.”

He distinctly heard the sound of fingers being noisily removed from Crowley’s mouth, then felt two wet digits probing at his backside.

“Bend forward, angel. Put your hands on the wall.”

Aziraphale again obeyed, practically shaking in anticipation.

The fingers continued to play, tease…

Meanwhile, the washroom emptied. They were completely alone.

“Stick them inside of me,” Aziraphale demanded, not quietly now. “I want them in me!”

“You want to get fingerfucked, angel?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Might want to free that big hard weapon up front, or you’ll have another mess on your hands fairly soon.”

Aziraphale did as Crowley suggested, and now, his cock hung down, solid as a rock, aimed straight at the toilet.

“What did Anathema say to you, then?” Crowley asked, popping the tip of one finger past Aziraphale’s tight-ringed barrier.

“She said everyone has desires that deserve to be heard out by those who love them,” Aziraphale told him, breathlessly.

“Ah. You told her I hinted about a trio with our favourite purveyor of cheese, who seems to be quite aroused by you.”

“I did. Was that wrong?”

“No, angel,” Crowley assured him now pressing one finger in and out gently. “Not wrong at all. What do you think of her advice?”

“I think she’s right, I want to hear you out… please give me more of your fingers, Crowley.”

Crowley obliged his trembling lover by adding another finger to his arsehole, and the slutty former angel moaned with abandon as he increased his pace and intensity.

“You want to hear me out? All right, then hear me. Listen."

“Okay,” Aziraphale panted.

“Do you like the thought of sensations exploding all over your body?” Crowley asked into his ear, fingering him a bit faster now. Aziraphale’s cock bobbed in response. “Wonder at all what it might be like to have both holes filled at once?"

“Oh, fuck,” Aziraphale moaned, almost reluctantly. “You’re such a fiend! Such a demon!”

“Temptation, angel. It's my jam."

"I said I'd listen, not be assaulted with... ugh... oh..."

"Tell me to stop talking, and I’ll just finish you up now, and we can return to our Stravinsky, and we don’t have to discuss this again.”

It was around then that they heard applause through the tannoy system. 

A few silent moments passed, Aziraphale said nothing.

Crowley smirked, increased his speed, and said, “Ahh, I thought so. Insatiable angel, you can’t help but wonder… a new cock in your mouth, what would that be like? Would you be able to take him down your throat like a bloody pro, like you do me? Especially if I’m behind you, fucking your brains out at the same time?”

“Oh, for Somebody's... Crowley...” Aziraphale growled with an intensity Crowley had rarely heard before.

The Symphony started, and music came through the speakers and filled the echoey space.

Crowley used his free hand to pull Aziraphale’s trousers to his knees. He spat on the red, puckered arsehole in front of him, and added a third finger. He proceeded to shove them in and out roughly, and asked, “Or maybe you’d prefer to be the one behind?”

“Yes, maybe…”

Crowley now made an effort to crook his fingers just so, and Aziraphale made a crackling cry.

“Behind me? Or better yet, him. Think of that – giving your big dick to someone new, someone who wants it bad, been wanting it for ages! Sinking it into an arse that craves you!”

His fingers kneaded the prostate each time they went in, each time a bit harder, faster by the moment…

“Crowley…” came the tell-tale whine.

“What would you do, angel? If you could give him what he wants? Give me what I want? We both want you! So you oblige, and what happens? When you abandon everything and let pleasure have you?”

The words were lovely, but they came out like a scolding, because this fingerfucking had grown harsh, urgent…

“What happens angel?” he hissed, and crooked two fingers forward in just the right position…

And a grunt escaped Aziraphale’s lips, just as a hot, white jet of come exploded from his aching cock, straight into the toilet. Another wave hit him as Crowley’s relentless fingers continued to give him more paroxysms, and more of his creamy pleasure shot out, spurt after warm spurt.

"That's right," Crowley whispered. "That's what happens."

Aziraphale gave surprised gasps, little breathy barks of pain and pleasure as he finished orgasming, and took a few moments of recovery.

He panted, and Crowley kissed his neck.

“My God, that was glorious,” he breathed.

“Not a fan of giving credit to the Big Gal, but I’ll have the word glorious,” Crowley quipped, as Aziraphale stood up straight, and he pulled his fingers from the still pulsating passage.

“I didn’t even know that was possible!”

“What, to shoot off hands-free? Oh, yeah. Got to be vigilantly filthy about it, though – it can get clinical if you’re not careful.” He looked down, and noticed his lover’s member still leaking a bit, and said, “Oops!” He grasped the twitching shaft and gave it one tight, slow pump, while Aziraphale nearly went cross-eyed, and then Crowley licked off the ooze that had escaped over his fingers.

Crowley moved away as best he could then, and tucked his half-hard cock back into his the Armani trousers that had, after a fashion, started all of this. As Aziraphale did the same, he asked, "Hypothetically, do you think you could talk Huling into coming for a drink, and - what's the phrase? - a drink and who knows what else?”

“Could I talk him into... you're joshing me, right?”

“Right,” Aziraphale muttered, zipping up. "I mean, no. Sorry."

Crowley opened the cubicle door, and Aziraphale climbed back into his coat. Both headed for the sink and washed their hands well.

“Ready to go back and sit down and be civilised?” Crowley asked, drying his hands with some disposable towels.

“She’s going to know. She’s going to know everything,” Aziraphale fretted

“Who?”

“Anathema! About what we did in here!”

“Yeah, probably,” Crowley said, with a shrug, moving toward the gents’ room door. “Although… she won’t know details, so that’s something.”

“Hypothetically, he would need to understand that it will just be the one time,” Aziraphale said, stepping out into the side corridor of the Mezzanine.

“Who?”

“Huling.”

“Of course. Hypothetically."

“That it’s merely experimental," Aziraphale said in an almost comically proper way.

“Yep.”

“But that we would like to remain friends…”

“We’re friends?”

“Well…” and then he stopped walking. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Would this be for you, or for me?”

“Huling?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I won’t lie. I find the idea of someone wanting one of us quite stimulating…”

“Right, well, you’ve just proven that.”

“And I’ll admit to having had a hankering, these past seventy-eight years, for, erm… you know, a party of three. I mean, my largest hankering was for you, of course, and the trio thing pales in comparison... not even in the same galaxy, hankering-wise. But you know, I'm a guy who's done practically everything. And I actually used to look forward to those dual temptation shags. A lot."

"Okay. I think I understand."

“But also, lately, I’ve begun to wonder if maybe you might need or want to touch life outside of me, as well. Experience someone else. And ever since Huling came into the bookshop, that little seed of thought has been growing.”

“I see. I think that’s a noble, and also practical sentiment, Crowley.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Brilliant. As long as you understand that it’s at least fifty-five per-cent, threesomes-are-hot-and-I-just-kind-of-want-one, and maybe forty-five per-cent the other thing about you broadening your horizons.”

“Okay. That’s rather specific, but okay.”

"Let's talk later. Unless you're keen to miss the rest of Stravinsky."

"All right," Aziraphale said, reaching for the door to the mezzanine.

"Angel?" 

"Yes?" 

"I know I laid on the temptation thing kind of thick in there. Maybe that wasn't fair."

Aziraphale smiled at him fondly. "It's who you are. You said it yourself: it's your jelly."

"Jam, Aziraphale, it's my jam. Blimey."

Aziraphale chuckled, and opened the door to the darkened auditorium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters are mostly about Mr. Huling… stay tuned. :-) 
> 
> And also, let me know what you thought of this chapter (and any others that struck your fancy)!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	27. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week and a half has passed since the Philharmonic performance and the tryst in the loo. Now, our very human quartet attend a rock concert (don't worry - no huge descriptions of Queen's music).
> 
> And then they have a frank discussion about Craig Huling and his possible role in their lives.
> 
> Fairly mild smut, both real and imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: in my mind, Craig Huling looks like what might happen if Channing Tatum and Tom Hardy had a child... only less pretty, more rugged. Maybe a bit of Jeremy Renner or Daniel Craig thrown in? 
> 
> Enjoy!

It had been a quiet, contemplative ten days, during which they had watched more television than usual, had had most meals at home, and spent a few nights in separate rooms. Aziraphale had even once lost complete track of time, and had to be phoned at the bookshop and reminded that it was past midnight, and he should perhaps come home and sleep. 

It was good to have some breathing space. Aziraphale, especially, felt he needed to do some heavy reflecting. What defines a relationship? How much should two people in a romantic partnership really share? How does one lose oneself in one’s partner, and how does one know? And is that good or bad? If both partners lose themselves, does that make them one?

\------------------------------------------------

On the tenth evening since ‘The Rite of Spring,’ Crowley stood in front of the mirror and did one last double-check. He was wearing the black polished wool and satin jacket of a tuxedo he had acquired in 1947, and a charcoal and orange fitted tartan button-up shirt, that had metallic threads in the pattern. His trousers were jet-black skinny leather jeans, and on his feet were the usual black boots. His hair was styled flamboyantly high, and around his neck, he wore a bronze-coloured necklace with a cobra’s head for a pendant. He dropped his sunglasses into his breast pocket. He couldn’t wait to get a stiff drink in his hand to complete the look.

Aziraphale had got dressed across the hall as he usually did, and met him in the foyer. He had been standing there with Crowley’s Smartphone, researching analyses of Queen’s music, reading their lyrics, and also learning more about cover bands, including the one they were about to see.

“Did you know there’s a fellow named Adam Lambert who is touring with the actual band? Those members who survive, that is,” Aziraphale asked, excitedly.

“I did, yes.”

“And I must know: is ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ for real, or is it some sort of joke?”

“Erm… I’m going with ‘yes.’”

“Which?”

“Both.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale breathed, handing the phone back.

“Speaking of fascinating, angel,” Crowley lilted, letting his eyes rove over his companion, as he pocketed the phone. “You’re going to turn some heads tonight. Although I must say, part of me still wants to grab on, and muss it all up. ‘Course, I’ve been saying that from the beginning, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale was dressed in a pair of dark fitted jeans, and the white nylon v-neck and tan leather jacket from the previous week.

“And which part of you would that be?” Aziraphale asked, batting his eyelashes.

“Guess.”

“And you, my love,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley’s ensemble. “Are you wearing tartan… on purpose?”

“Well, it doesn’t count if it’s all dark, with shiny bits in.”

“Oh, of course. Straight out of Mr. Blackwell’s book, is it?”

“Absolutely. Shall we?”

\----------------------------------

Parking in London is always a nightmare, especially when one has 1) a large vintage car, and 2) no magical powers to rid said car of dings, and/or parking citations. Therefore, the pair had been driving fewer and fewer places.

Lucky for them, Seen Queen was playing at Academy Brixton, which was only four Tube stops away. 

They exited the train at Brixton station, and walked to the concert hall. Anathema and Newt were waiting in the lobby for them at a high cocktail table, with drinks already purchased for their formerly supernatural friends.

“This really is not necessary,” Aziraphale said, sipping his Martini. “You don’t have to keep buying us drinks. Although, this is perfectly mixed!”

“And you don’t have to keep buying us tickets to amazing events, and yet you do,” Anathema said, clinking her wine glass against Aziraphale’s. “It’s the least we can do. Nice duds, by the way. Very, very nice.”

Aziraphale blushed, and said, “Thanks. You don’t think I look soulless?”

“Not one bit,” she said. “You’ve chosen your ensemble well. It’s very you, and also very cool (which are not two things that usually go together, sorry to say). You look like a person of influence, great taste, and…”

“Power?” Crowley asked, winking over the top of his Scotch.

“Definitely,” she said, winking back. “Although, have you ever heard of Steampunk? That’s a look that both of you might enjoy, if you ever decide to become one of those couples who dresses alike.”

This occasion was the first time any of the three of the men had seen Anathema in trousers. She was wearing one of her custom-made poufy blouses. It was a Victorian design, though modernised in black with a metallic blue and green floral pattern, and tucked into skin-tight black jeans. The jeans, in turn, were tucked into skin-tight black knee-high lace-up boots.

Newt was, again, trying his hand at “cool,” with jeans and a grey blazer, and a Freddie Mercury tee-shirt Anathema had ordered for him. He had grown a bit of scruff, and it looked good on him. He looked at his watch and said, “Well, it starts in ten minutes. I’m going to visit the gents’. Excuse me.”

“I believe I’ll do the same,” Aziraphale said, finishing his drink surprisingly quickly, and following Newt to a side hallway.

Anathema and Crowley were left alone, and the latter pointedly did not make eye-contact until the silence became almost unbearably awkward.

Finally, he looked at her, and she was smiling back at him, knowingly. She clinked her glass against his, toasted, and sipped her wine.

“What? What is it, Book Girl?” Crowley asked, sheepishly exasperated.

“Nothing, nothing, Not-A-Demon Guy.”

He sighed. “Bright red and throbbing?”

“Yep. It’s the clothes, isn’t it? Just like him, at the symphony with you in that suit.”

“Would you stop aura-ing us?”

“Aura is a noun, not a verb. And I don’t aura anyone, they aura me. I can’t just stop – it doesn’t work that way.”

“Then close your eyes.”

“Right,” she chuckled. “It’s my fault then?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

“How about, if you don’t like it that I can see the red and throbbing on you guys, then get a hold of yourselves before you leave home!”

“It wouldn’t help,” Crowley muttered, throwing back the rest of his Scotch, and tossing the glass onto the table. 

“You’re probably right,” she said. “So, are we to assume that we won’t see you two until a while into the second set again? Just tell me now, so we can make sure you guys sit near the aisle.”

Crowley had a hard time answering. She had put him on the back foot. “We’re not giving you the satisfaction,” he said, rather slowly.

“Oh, come on. You know you want to muss up that squeaky-clean little ensemble he’s got.”

“What, you can see that on my aura as well?”

“No, it was just a guess. But a good guess, eh?”

\-------------------------------------------

They managed to make it through a late-night dinner with friends, and all the way home after midnight before Crowley absolutely had to muss up Aziraphale’s new look. They even made it to the bedroom, but not quite to the bed.

Aziraphale’s leather jacket had been only half removed, rather unceremoniously. That is to say, both arms remained half in it. The jacket had been taken roughly down and turned veritably inside-out, pinning Aziraphale’s arms to his sides, just before he was pushed into the cushiony dark brown armchair near the bedroom door.

Crowley threw off his own jacket. He knelt at his companion’s feet and tore open the calfskin belt, pulled it out of the loops and threw it over his shoulder. He then practically ripped apart the button and fly of Aziraphale’s new jeans, and tugged everything down hard, bunching it all round his calves. Next, he proceeded to use his mouth to make his angel’s back arch for several minutes, and make loud, uninhibited noises (and expletives) escape from him. He used his hand to finish the job, however, and in the end, Aziraphale found himself laying back in the armchair, semi-restrained, panting, with his white nylon tee-shirt quite purposefully splattered with something thick and slippery that would (not to worry) come out in the washing machine.

With some effort, he sat up straight and wrestled himself out of the jacket. He studied the spatter, and asked, “Oh Crowley, was that really necessary? Just when we’d more or less worked out how not to make these messes.”

“Yes. Yes, it was necessary, angel,” answered the former demon, who was now unbuttoning his own shirt, and whose leather trousers were quite full and firm in the front. “You were looking just a bit too perfect. Had to muck it all up. The demon tearing asunder what the angel has wrought, perhaps. Besides, I kind of like the messes.”

Aziraphale stood up, and took off the shirt, depositing it on the floor for now, and bending to untie his shoes, so he could step out of his trousers.

Crowley was now doing the same thing, and when done, he turned and walked toward the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale asked him. “Don’t you need… seeing-to?”

“You’d better believe it, angel,” Crowley said, turning around in the door jamb, sporting a full erection. “But we both smell like cigarette smoke, which, in the twenty-first century, is far from cool. It’s actually pretty disgusting, and I need to rinse out my hair.”

“All right. Shall I just wait, then?”

“No, you can give me a seeing-to in the shower,” Crowley answered. He held out his hand. “Come on.”

\------------------------------------------

The following day, it was nearly noon before Aziraphale got round to opening the bookshop, and Crowley promised to follow an hour or so behind, and turn up with some lunch. When he arrived, there were no customers in, and Aziraphale was standing at his rolltop desk, (back in his usual clothes), hands clasped behind him, staring out the window.

Crowley sidled up beside him and peered out in the same direction. “What’re we looking at?” he whispered.

“Craig Huling,” Aziraphale sighed. “I saw him go into the coffee shop across the street about five minutes ago, and I’m hoping to get another glimpse when he leaves.”

“Oh. Why?”

Aziraphale sighed, with a touch of exasperation. “Because, I suppose, if we’re going to, you know… invite him in…”

“Yes?”

“I want another look at him.”

“You haven’t had enough looks at him over the last five years, or whatever it’s been since you've been buying cheese from him?”

“I know what he looks like, but it’s only very recently that I’ve been called-upon to wonder whether he is attractive to me. Whether I could possibly…” he said, trailing off. “I simply never looked at people that way for the vast, vast majority of my existence. Except you, and you weren’t a person.”

“I see.”

“I want to see how he moves, and perhaps get an idea of his mannerisms and how he acts when I’m not standing right in front of him… now that I know that my presence is bound to somewhat alter his demeanour.”

“Yes, I reckon it is.” There was a long pause, and then Crowley said, still just above a whisper, “Angel, we don’t have to do it. I’m sorry if you feel pressured. If you’re spying on the man to try and work out whether you could fancy him for an evening, then it means you probably couldn’t. Or you don’t. Or…”

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale shrugged, lightly. “Perhaps I'm just verifying - can't say yet. Oh… there he is.”

The two of them watched as Huling stepped onto the pavement with a coffee in one hand, and a paper bag in the other, presumably containing one of the shop’s very mediocre sandwiches. 

He was wearing a white body-hugging ribbed sweater and flat-front trousers, accentuating everything that was appealing about him from the neck down. “I’m sorry, angel, but that man is bloody lovely.”

“You don’t find his face a bit asymmetrical?”

"Yes, but I like that. I’m telling you, conventional, perfect beauty… not my style. Give me the gap in Lauren Hutton’s teeth any day, over Cindy Crawford’s dentures.”

“Who are they?”

“Never mind,” Crowley muttered.

Huling walked about five steps from the café’s front door, when he was stopped by someone – a rather short, bearded man whom Aziraphale had seen in the neighbourhood before. The two of them stood on the walkway, and seemed to be joking about something.

“Huling has a nice smile,” Aziraphale mused. “Why have I never noticed it?”

"Around you, perhaps he doesn’t let down his guard enough to smile.”

As the shorter man talked, Huling sipped his drink, drawing attention to his full, slightly crooked lips as they pursed and slacked. He stood with an easy, relaxed stance, and manoeuvred his arms into a crossed-over position. This highlighted his sculpted biceps and torso.

Aziraphale said, “I can see the appeal.”

“Can you? Really?”

“Yes. I could see why someone would be impressed by his muscles.”

“Indeed.”

“Mind you, I still prefer your body – the long, lean, sinewy, slinky, reptilian type,” Aziraphale mused, continuing to study their mark.

“Okay. Good to hear.”

“He’s nowhere even close to your league, Crowley.”

Crowley was taken aback. “Thank you. Nor yours.”

“But beauty takes many forms.”

“It does, yes.”

Huling and the bearded man shook hands heartily, smiled at each other, and walked off in separate directions. The pair inside the bookshop watched until they could no longer see Huling, and then for another twenty seconds after the man disappeared.

Crowley gave Aziraphale the time to contemplate, then asked, “So… lunch? I brought chicken saag and miniature samosas.”

“Ooh!” Aziraphale said, coming to. “That sounds wonderful!”

They shared containers of food, sitting in their usual bookshop spots – Crowley on the sofa, Aziraphale in his deteriorating desk chair. They spent about ten minutes just chatting, and having lunch.

“Angel, about Huling. I've been thinking again about what I said to you in the loo at the Royal Festival Hall." He sat back on the sofa and ran his hand through his hair, looking harried. "Temptation is one thing, but it’s really not fair to barrage you with filthy orgiastic scenarios while I’ve got you panting and edging in a toilet cubicle, and then ask you to make an informed decision.”

“I have had a week and a half to think about it, you know, and I want you to have everything that you desire, my love. But I also think you were quite right about my needing to have broader experiences.”

“You think so?”

“I love you so much, Crowley, and I must admit, I enjoy sex a great deal more than I thought I would, before trying it. As you know, I learned rather quickly what to do, and how, and what I want, and what you want… Things have progressed at a fast pace. And so, I do confess to wondering what it might be like with someone else. Although, I have no desire to be, as it were, ‘free’ to be with anyone I fancy – I want nothing more than to spend whatever is left of my future with you. Doing what we do. Sharing creature comforts, enjoying each other’s company as we always have, and having a rich, dense sex life.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Then, after thinking on it, what’s wrong with wondering what else is out there, and maybe sampling a bit of it? As long as we both fancy it, and have boundaries.”

“There is nothing wrong,” Crowley agreed. 

"The group-of-three situation is something you’ve always enjoyed – a particularly delectable treat for you, back in your temptation-shag days, yes?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Then, on the surface of it, I say it merits a chance. Except, can you talk to me about the possible ramifications? I daresay you’d know more about it than I would.”

“Well, angel, I’m no relationship expert. I mean, this is basically my first one.”

“Then, perhaps I can tell you about one of my fears.”

“Please do,” Crowley said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and uneasily adjusted his clothing. “All right. Until now, you’re the only being in all of Heaven, Hell, or Earth that I’ve ever fancied, ever had fantasies about, ever wanted to touch that way. If I engage with Huling, I wonder if I’ll feel somewhat that a certain purity is leaving me.”

“You might, yes.”  
Aziraphale's face seemed to melt into mild worry. "And might you, as well? Feel that I’m tainted?”

“Never. You could never be tainted – not to me,” Crowley assured him, smiling quite warmly. “I’ve been in love with you since before the Battle of Hastings. One evening’s indulgence cannot break that. But, angel, if you’re worried about feeling tainted, then maybe you’re not ready. Or this idea just isn’t for you.”

“What if I said that being touched by someone else is still all in the service of you? That everything I’ve ever done sexually is to that end, including being intimate with Huling. So, upon my soul, I remain pure, so to speak?”

“I don’t know. What if? You tell me. Exactly how bent-out-of-shape does that particular rationalisation feel to you?”

“Not very bent-out-of-shape at all, actually. It’s something I’ve come to realise over the past week or so – a revelation that has developed. It’s not the result of my trying to find reasons why it will all be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I believe so. But what about you? Taint and impurities aside, you wouldn’t feel on some visceral level that my person, my body, no longer belongs just to you?”

“You mean, would I be jealous?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m asking.”

“If it’s someone who wants you, I love the idea of showing off how fucking delectable you are.”

“I see. Like when you have a lovely, delicious confection on your plate, and you desperately want your dinner companion to try it?”

“Sort of. But that’s a good point, speaking of sampling what someone else has. Do you remember how you felt about Vincenzo?”

“I do.”

“And all he did was pull my hair, and all I did was say a naughty word.”

“Right. And?”

“You wanted me to speak about some possible ramifications, so that’s what I’m doing. Vincenzo. Think about it.”

“All right. Yes, I do remember feeling quite jealous over Vincenzo, but I also remember coming to terms with it rather quickly, and learning from it.”

"Really? What exactly did you learn from it?"

"As I said to you just after the incident, in that particular instance, I overreacted. In the ensuing hours, I had thought a lot about it and realised, not for the first time, that the desires of the human animal are rich, inexplicable, and sundry. I realised that there may be parts of the corporeal experience that I just don’t understand, but that your intimate understanding of them does not make you love me any less."

“That's all very cerebral. Rational."

"Yes."

“But what about heart? Gut? Do you remember the talk we had that evening, and your describing to me how knowing I have a long history of temptation shags was one thing, but hearing about it was another? Being expected to accept, and laugh off, my millennia of carnal exploits, and be okay with it… it was rough, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Angel, what we’re going in for… you might actually SEE me with someone else. Not just know it or hear about it, but watch me doing it. Can you handle that, if Huling and I kick off? Say, you’re spent, and he and I are still energetic, and we turn to one another.”

“I think I could bear it. Moreover, you foul tempter, you've got me curious."

Crowley stood up, and came round to Aziraphale’s side, because he needed more assurance than just, ‘I think I could bear it.’ He knelt beside the desk chair, got up very close and said, “Close your eyes, Aziraphale.”

His angel obeyed.

"I know you've already thought about being penetrated and pleasured by me, and him, at the same time - that's the bit that's got you curious. The bastard and part-time hedonist in you can't help but wonder what it's like to have both of us all over you, adoring you, making you feel all things at once. Am I right?"

"You know you are... you're the one who put those ideas in my head."

“Now think of what you might see. Really visualise this, angel. Me, naked. And now visualise Huling naked with me. We’re on the bed, kissing each other, limbs and flesh writhing around like a snake pit. He lies on his back and I slide down and take his cock in my mouth. You are not participating – you’re sitting in the armchair, just watching. My mouth moves up and down on his shaft, and he and I both moan… perhaps he says something encouraging and filthy to me. And I pump him faster and faster until he cries out, and orgasms hard, and you watch the muscles in my neck tense, and you know I’ve swallowed his come. You know that I’ve given him the same kind of pleasure I give you – though he doesn’t love me, and I don’t love him – and I’ve given him a big, fat release that went straight down my throat. And I fucking loved it.”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley looked down into his companion’s lap and could see clearly that the visualisation, and his words, were arousing his partner. He decided to go further, to see if it might disturb.

“And then, he’s satisfied, but I’m not, so I order him up onto his hands and knees. I lube up his hole and make it all slippery – maybe even lick it, if it looks pink and rosy enough - then I shove my cock into it. I bury myself balls-deep, and I whisper a mild blasphemy because it feels so good. And I give him good, deep fucking – hard, fast, noisy. And after a long, rigorous build-up, I grunt, and lose my load deep inside of him. Him, instead of you – his arse takes it all. I pump warm jets into his body – my wet, slippery pleasure, angel, goes into him, in little waves of sparkling heat. He will feel me inside of him for the next few days, if not my come, then at least the ghost of the pounding I gave him. What do you think about that?”

With his eyes still closed, Aziraphale said, “I should think that you would be able quite plainly to see what I think of it.”

“I can see it makes you hard thinking about it. Made me a little hard to talk about it, but Aziraphale, are you sure that’s your final word? Your dick is literally doing the decision-making?”

“All right, then, here’s are some cerebral decision-making considerations: You said I'm a non-participant. Well, why so? Just because I'm spent?"

"Presumably."

"Well, being spent doesn't mean I'm incapacitated. I could maybe be coaxed alive. So, in that scenario you just described with Huling on his hands and knees, what would stop me from, say, kneeling in front of him and asking him to pleasure me orally, during the proceedings?”

“Nothing. Certainly not me.”

"And I could watch you, touch you, whisper to you while you take your pleasure with him. Feel you shudder when you come.”

“Yes.”

“Or, in the first scenario, what would stop me from penetrating you with my fingers or the glass spade while you’re fellating him?”

“Holy shit, Aziraphale.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. Nothing would stop you.”

“That’s what makes this different from Vincenzo. It’s not behind my back. It’s not a surprise. I can take as much pleasure from it as you.”

“You’re right.”

“And you’ve loved me for a thousand years, we’ve been best friends since the Beginning of Time. What would stop you from always coming home to me, figuratively speaking?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you still want to do this?” 

“Oh, I do. There are other variables, you know.”

“I can see that. Well enough to realise that we can’t possibly plan for all of them. But this talk has been very helpful. I feel well-informed enough to decide."

Crowley smiled slightly. "I don't know what else I should say, then."

“I believe Huling’s shop shuts at eight p.m. Whatever you've got to say, say it to him. Perhaps you can catch him at closing time. Set a date for next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was bound to be controversial, with Aziraphale's thoughts and philosophies. What do you think of their discussion? Does it make you feel trepidation for what's coming, or do you feel safe? I'm very eager for feedback on this (of course, when am I not?). Thank you for reading!


	28. He's An Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all very well and good for Aziraphale and Crowley to think through, mentally rehearse, and agree to an evening à trois with Craig Huling, but if Huling himself doesn't agree, then it's all rather moot.
> 
> Huling is about to be propositioned by the most skilled tempter on Earth. How will he fare?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is so much I'd like to say about this chapter! So many things I'd like you to know about it, so many things, considerations, etc. that went into it. All of your voices were echoing in my mind when I wrote it. 
> 
> It went through 3-and-a-half drafts. All drafts were difficult and so much fun to write! 
> 
> As Aziraphale pointed out in the previous chapter, it is impossible for them to discuss and consider and wrestle with every contingency... it is equally impossible for ME as the author to do so. So, please know that I had to choose which battles to fight, so to speak. They may not have been the same battles that you might have chosen, but please be open minded, and kind!
> 
> Not that any of you are ever jerks. :-)
> 
> So, this chapter is VERY talky. This is because I wanted it to feel genuine. Real conversations have boring small talk - most don't just get immediately down to the matter at hand, especially with two parties who aren't sure of one another. And Crowley knows you can't just plunder in... you've got to have a bit of finesse.
> 
> And, the chapter has 2 goals:  
> 1\. To make Craig Huling three-dimensional. I tried to portray him as a gentle, sensual, intelligent man, with very human weaknesses and a charming, almost reluctant sense of humor. In one chapter, I'm trying to give you enough information about him and his personality that you CARE about him, what happens to him, and whether or not he participates. When you read about their encounter, I don't want you to feel that I've placed a total stranger in the bedroom with our boys.  
> 2\. To show that none of the three men are making this lightly, as a bit of fun that could exist independently of sentiment. I wanted to show that we (they, and I) are taking this seriously, especially the emotional ramifications. And in the end, hopefully, the reader will see why Huling makes the decision he does, and will be convinced that we are not necessarily headed for imminent disaster OR an unrealistic encounter.
> 
> I hope you find this chapter satisfying, un-boring, but also sweet. Enjoy!

The tinkling of a bell sounded, and Crowley took a step up. His feet then landed on a royal blue and light green ceramic chequerboard floor. The bell sounded again as the door shut behind him.

He had been here a few times before, most notably about two weeks earlier, when he and Aziraphale had spent some time and money on a cheese course, which had been almost forgotten in passion’s wake.

He found himself slipping back almost into ‘demon’ mode, or at least into ‘temptation’ mode: he took his few seconds alone to look about carefully, assessing the colours, textures, thinking about the sensibilities of the person who had chosen it all. How were these aspects going to affect the transaction? He noticed the scent in the air, the music, the modest wine rack.

The entire shop had royal blue walls, and three crystal-clear refrigerated glass cases displaying its wares. The cutting boards under the glass were uniformly square, and uniformly white “distressed” wood. The cutlery had stylized, colourful Art-Deco handles. There were a few small paintings on the wall – unique abstract acrylics, and nary a sterile Monet print to be seen.

The door was on the corner of the building, and to the left and right, there were display windows. Both windows featured, as before, jams, preserves, and spreads to complement the cheeses, as well as gourmet nuts, and small cards with hints about wine pairings. Aziraphale had told him once that Huling’s wine stock could be considered rather pedestrian on its own, but if one considered the pairings he suggested, quite a few of them were singular indeed. There was a two-person café table just in front of one of the windows – a little black iron set, with chairs bent into commonly-seen heart-shaped backs, and mesh seats. The table was made of the same mesh, and had a mason jar upon it, with a few garden flowers emerging out of the top. Crowley had been carrying a bottle of Aziraphale’s 1940 Colheita Porto in his left hand – he now set it on that table.

Upon the air, a song was playing, called, “Amadio mio,” by the American jazz ensemble, Pink Martini. Not Crowley’s cup of tea as far as music goes – far too cute – but perfect for this establishment.

To his surprise, it was a woman who threw aside the curtain from the back room, and came through. She was rather plain – average height, average build, straight brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and fitted white dress shirt under her light blue apron.

“Hiya,” she said, lightly. “Just FYI, we’re closing in about five minutes. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Crowley smiled. “You must be Kath,” he said, sticking his hand out over the display case.

She obliged his request for a handshake. “You must know my brother,” she chuckled. “Everyone else on the planet calls me Kate.”

“Ah – yes, I believe I do know your brother,” he told her, affably. “Anthony Crowley - nice to meet you.”

“Kate Romy,” she said. “So, you’re here to see Craig?”

“I am.”

She looked him up and down with a little eye flutter, clearly convinced that Crowley was some sort of love interest for her brother, and said, “Hang on. I’ll get him.”

From Crowley’s position beside the display case nearest the door to the back room, he heard Kate speak to her brother, despite her attempts at keeping her voice down.

“There’s a man here to see you.”

Crowley heard a muffled grunt coming from Huling, assuming the words were something like, “Who is it?”

“He says his name is Crowley. Anthony Crowley.”

Now, Huling’s voice was clear. “Crowley? Seriously?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Shit.”

At this, Crowley chuckled.

“What?” Kate asked.

“Tall bloke? Red hair? Probably dressed in black? Possibly dark glasses?”

“Yeah. Well, not the glasses, but yeah.”

“What does he want?”

“I dunno – to talk to you. He didn’t say anything else.”

“Ugh,” Huling groaned. “Does he seem upset?”

“No, he seems… charming. He was smiling, very pleasant…”

“Yeah, that’s how he is.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“What else did he say? Does he have anyone with him?”

“No, he’s alone.”

“Damn it.”

“Craig, who is this guy? Why are you reluctant to talk to him?”

Crowley sighed. It had never occurred to him that Huling would interpret his dropping-in as a confrontation. Actually, it had never occurred to him that anyone would find him threatening, as a human.

“It’s just… it’s complicated,” Huling told his sister.

“Do you want me to ring Fred? He can be here in ten minutes. I’ll tell him to leave the kids with Trish next door.”

“No, don’t be daft.”

“Well, I can’t very well tell this Crowley that you’re not here.”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” he sighed. Crowley then heard the distinct sound of an office chair moving across the floor.

“Seriously, who is this guy?” Kate asked, still in hushed tones. “Be straight with me, Craig: are you gambling again?”

“No, no, come on, Kath, give me a little credit. Just…wish me luck.”

“Erm… good luck?”

A second later, Huling appeared in the doorway, with an uncomfortable smile, and said, “Mr. Crowley, hello.”

“Mr. Huling,” Crowley said, with a little bow. He picked up the Colheita and showed it off. “I wondered if we could have a chat. Friendly one. Totally friendly. I even brought a bribe.”

“There’s no need. I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

“You’re going to tell me to back off. In the friendliest way possible.”

Crowley frowned. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

“You know that I…” Huling said, then he stopped short, placed his hands behind his back, and swallowed hard. “…that you have something I want. I reckon you’re here to tell me to keep my distance."

“I do know that, as it happens. But it’s not like you’re there in the bookshop sniffing about all the time. Unless… I dunno, maybe you are, and you’re just incredibly stealthy.”

“I’m not. If I were ever there, you’d know it. I’m a bull in a china shop.”

“See? What are you worried about?”

“Then why are you here?”

“Well, I can see that you’re nervous, but rest assured, you won’t need a witness. In fact, Mr. Huling, I think you’ll be a lot happier if we keep this conversation private.”

“You want me to ask my sister to leave?”

“It might be best, yeah – no offence to your sister, of course. Or, we could go someplace else…”

Huling’s sister stepped back out. “I’m sorry, but we have a large shipment coming in the morning, and some receipts that still..."

“No, it’s all right. Go home, Kath,” Huling said. "I'll finish up."

In spite of himself, the man still seemed nervous.

“Excellent,” Crowley said, sitting down at the little table. “Thanks, Kate."

Brother and sister both disappeared through the doorway, and pulled the curtain. A few moments later, Kate came back out, without her apron, jacket on, and purse in-hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley,” she said.

“And you,” he said. “And don’t worry – I’m not dangerous.”

“I worked that out,” she said, with a chuckle. “When you said ‘bookshop,’ it clicked. Tell Mr. Fell I said hello. I mean, we’ve never met, but I feel like I know him.”

Crowley gave a restrained smile, and a nod, and bade her good night. She pulled down the shade on the inside of the door, then locked up as she left.

Huling reappeared with two small wine-sampling glasses, and a flat white plastic container. Crowley opened the Colheita, and Huling poured. As he did so, Crowley couldn’t help but notice that he was still wearing the fitted white cable-knit sweater he’d had on that morning, and reiterated, within his own mind, that Craig Huling was, if nothing else, bloody lovely.

Huling turned off all but one warm canister light, just above the little table. He sat down across from Crowley and opened the flat white receptacle, revealing small chunks of five different cheeses.

“I had set this aside to bring home tonight. As you might have guessed, I live alone. Well, actually, that’s a lie. I have a cat named Brian, but he doesn’t like cheese,” Huling said. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks. Er, Brian? That’s your cat?”

“Yeah. I find mundane human names quite funny on animals. An ex-boyfriend had a Basset Hound named Steve - it was amusing to me. Actually, the real reason is, I’m a big fan of Brian May.”

"Oh, me too!"

“People make such a big deal about Freddie Mercury, but Brian’s guitar work… oh, my God.”

Crowley nodded. “We just went to a Queen cover band – the guitarist was a world-class musician, trained under Yo-Yo Ma. Still wasn’t as good.”

“How could he be?” Huling asked. Then he gestured to the selection of cheese. “Dig in.”

Crowley had no hankering for any cheeses, but cut a piece of something – he had no idea what – and sampled it. And when Huling smiled, he also noted the man’s crooked mouth, rugged, rounded nose and lips, plus wide blue eyes, one of which had a crescent-shaped scar above it.

Huling picked up his glass, and examined the thick, sweet, purplish-red liquid inside. He swished it just a bit, and asked, “So, is this really a 1940 Colheita?”

“It is.”

“And Mr. Fell really purchased it at auction?”

“Well, to be honest, I wasn’t there when he acquired it. But that scenario does seem to make sense, doesn’t it?”

Huling nodded absently. He reverently sipped from the glass, and closed his eyes, holding the liquid in his mouth for a few moments. Eventually, he swallowed, and said, “Oh, wow. Oh… wow.”

“I know, right?”

“I’m sorry… would you like to toast something?” Huling asked.

“Well, let’s toast clearing the air,” Crowley said. “Honesty. And possibilities.”

Huling nodded, they clinked glasses, and each took another sip.

“Oh, that’s lovely. So, so lovely," Huling mused.

“It’s yours if you want it. We’ve still got most of a case in the back of the bookshop.”

“Wow – that’s too much…”

“Oh, hardly. Just have it. Share what’s left with your sister tomorrow.”

“Well, thank you. And Kath thanks you as well.”

“Don’t mention it. So… a bull in a china shop, eh?” Crowley asked, with a bit of a chortle.

Huling smirked shyly and nodded. Crowley could tell from body language that this was the moment when his guard went most of the way down. 

“Growing up, I was in a wrestling club. We used to travel all over the country, competing. And I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I was damn good. Won the South England pennant once.”

“Nice!” Crowley exclaimed. “That explains your… physique.”

Again, Huling smirked with a bit of diffidence. “Thanks. It gave me an appreciation for fitness. But absolutely no grace nor finesse. Our brother did ballet, on the other hand. Now, he could skulk about in Mr. Fell’s shop all day and never be seen. He’s like a bloody Ninja. With a taste for pranks.”

“Your brother is a dancer? A… practical joking dancer?”

“Actually, he’s an accountant - does our books. Still dances once in a while with a community company in his neighbourhood. Ironically, he’s the straight one.”

“And what made you want to own a cheese shop?”

Huling smiled. “What is this, an interview?”

“Maybe,” Crowley said, with his own sly, charming smile.

“Er, well… you really want to know?"

"I wouldn't have asked if not."

"Okay. Well, I’ve always been discerning about food, even as a youngster. I started out studying culinary arts at uni, and had plans to go to Paris, but, erm… well, circumstances caused me to have to quit.”

“Ah, circumstances. I hate those.”

Huling sighed. “I went on a trip to Blackpool with some mates, and…”

“…got hooked on gambling?” Crowley asked. “Sorry – I heard your sister ask you about that.”

“Bloody Kath – she used to work PR, you’d think she’d be more discreet. But yes, I developed a gambling addiction, and to be honest, I’m… well, I’m not ashamed of it anymore. I still go to meetings, and I sponsor a couple of people.”

“That’s… brilliant. I can’t say I’ve ever been able to turn any of my vices around into something productive like that. Not without some Divine intervention, anyway.”

“Divine intervention. Erm, sorry, but you don’t strike me as a church-goer.”

“No, just… appreciative of the odd touch from a guardian angel, is all.”

“Aren’t we all, eh? My guardian angel is Kath, but don’t tell her I said that."

“Mum’s the word.”

“Do I have to ask who yours is?” Huling asked with a sparkle in his eye. 

“No. I don’t think so,” Crowley admitted.

Huling nodded appreciatively. “Anyway, to answer your question, after going home with my tail between my legs, I waited tables at the Ivy, and had to learn all about cheeses, which was something that had never occurred to me to do… and it was sort of fascinating. I was able to go from there to a catering company, and different things – built up a nest-egg. Kath was getting bloody sick of PR, so I asked her if she wanted to go halfsies on a little gourmet boutique, and she fancied it.”

“What are guardian angels for, eh?”

Huling smiled. “I had to learn a lot more about cheeses before we could start up this business, but as I did, I found I’d made the right choice. I can’t explain why I love cheeses so much. I guess it’s just the hidden possibilities. The incredible variety and nuance that most people can’t discern… it’s enthralling. Which makes me sound like a total dork.”

“A bit, but I like it. Do me a favour. Next time you see my partner, tell him your story, especially that last bit, about variety and nuance and hidden possibilities. He’ll eat it up. So to speak.”

Huling chuckled. “He’s quite the gourmet himself, is he?”

“Oh, I’m surprised you could tell. He’s so subtle about it.”

The two of them laughed a bit, and then Huling took a deep breath and settled into his chair.

“So, I suppose that makes a good segue way,” he said, cutting a piece of smoked cheddar for himself. He popped it in his mouth, and said, “I assume you didn’t come here just to share port with me, and grill me about my past.”

“Sorry about that – I just wanted to get to know you. Didn’t mean for it to feel like an interview. For what it’s worth, I’m forty-four (I think), I have no siblings, and am recently out of a job.”

“Oh – that’s bad luck. What did you used to do?”

“Er… let’s just say I was something of a ‘fixer’ for a large corporation. It wasn’t very soul-satisfying work anyway. Luckily, I’m comfortable being a kept man. At least for a little while.”

“And you’re here because…

“I’d like to invite you for a drink. Well, another drink. Besides this. Next week. Probably cocktails.”

“Oh. A drink?”

“Yes. At our flat.”

“With… both of you?”

“Yep. A drink and… who knows what else?” Crowley said, with an easy smile.

Huling smiled uncomfortably, and looked down at the table. “Ah. I know what else.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well, yeah, we all know what else, but I hadn't actually planned to come out and say it."

“Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for one to mince words, any more than as a church-goer.”

“You want the unminced version?” Crowley asked, with a smirk.

“No, thanks. I’m getting the idea just fine... minced,” Huling told him, holding up a hand.

“Besides, we wanted to give you the chance to change your mind at any time, so as long as we pretend it really is ‘who knows what else?’ there might be less pressure on you.”

Huling sat for a minute or two, contemplating, sipping a bit. Then he cut another small chunk of cheese, ate it, and said, “Can I just ask, what’s brought this on?”

“Eh…” Crowley croaked, shifting in his chair, and drawing out the syllable. “Well, a variety of things. Mostly me. And clothing.”

“Clothing?”

“Clothing, and reflections on power and coveting.”

“Clothing, power and coveting,” Huling echoed. “So, after your last visit here.”

“Evidently.”

Huling studied him for a moment. He seemed to examine Crowley’s brown eyes, and narrowed his own. “Are you for real?”

“Absolutely.”

“And is he?”

Crowley’s voice became low, and serious. “He is more real than anyone I’ve ever known. More engaging and sensitive, and just… GOOD. I have never met anyone finer.”

Huling smiled a bit sadly. “I’m glad to know that at least he’s with someone who appreciates him.”

“And you saw a side to him the other night – the spoiled, slightly bitchy, bit-of-an-arsehole side. And there is that, but even at that, there is zero bullshit about him. So yes. We are for real.”

The fromager’s voice came out quite light and timid. “Dare I ask, why me?”

“Again, it was mostly me.”

“Okay, but why?”

Crowley sighed. “My partner himself gave me a metaphor, and I think it’s apt. You’ll appreciate it.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever had a delicious, delectable dessert on your plate, and it’s yours because you ordered it, and everyone at the table can see that it’s probably pretty amazing-tasting. But it’s so good, you really just want them all to try it? To share the incredible confection with someone else, just so that they can say, ‘wow, look at what you’ve got!’ And maybe a little bit because it’s too damn good to keep all to yourself?”

Huling narrowed his eyes. “I have. I’m finding the metaphor, ironically, a bit vulgar, but also… understandable.”

“And isn’t it a great experience when others ‘ooh and aah’ over your dessert? And you’re sort of happy to have given them that little slice of life?”

“So you’re here talking to me, because you think he’s a delectable dessert that you feel you’d like to share with someone?”

“Yes. But not just someone. You.”

“Just me.”

“Yes. And just the once – no strings.”

“I don’t know whether to feel touched, or insulted. Or pitiable. Or…”

Crowley leaned forward and engaged the man's eyes. “Before you decide how to feel, focus on the fact that you have an opportunity at something that would otherwise have been… well, frankly, never offered. And not because you’re not a lovely man, but for reasons that frankly transcend time and logic itself.”

Huling had no idea what that meant, but the bit about ‘opportunity’ that he wouldn’t otherwise have did echo in his head. He nodded slightly, then fell silent again. Crowley watched his body language. The man crossed his legs and arms, and held his hands tightly in fists. He seemed to be holding his breath, and his eyes showed signs of real contemplation. His foot tapped on the floor – everything about his body was tight. 

These were markers of a man who was grappling. Insecure with a decision. Not leaning just yet one way or the other…

But sorely tempted.

A man thinking of another man, a beautiful man whom he fancied terribly, and had done for years. Someone about whom he had likely had more than a few fantasies, someone who served as a distraction, whose beatific nature had built up in his mind to the point of covetousness.

Crowley could see it because he was skilled at tempting, but also because he was experienced in the field of Wanting Aziraphale.

But Craig Huling was a respectable man, who had been offered a possibly less-than-respectable chance to realise one aspect of a dream…

“I don’t know if I could do it,” Huling whispered, his voice edgy.

“But you want to. I can tell."

Huling sighed heavily, then confessed, “Of course I want to – I can’t help it. I’ve admired him for years. Although, I think perhaps he’s been with you all that time.”

"Yeah. Basically. Sorry."

“I’m such an idiot. I had seen you come and go from his shop a number of times, but I guess it never occurred to me… I suppose I had convinced myself that you were just a local book enthusiast. Though, you look less like an antique bibliophile than perhaps anyone I’ve ever seen,” Huling said, with a chuckle.

Crowley smirked. “Fair dues. I’ve never gone in there for the books. Though I will admit to sometimes going in for the alcohol.”

“It never even entered my mind who you were until the two of you turned up here last week. Of course, that was after I’d already made my overture and been shot down. Did you know about that?”

“Yeah. I was there. I heard everything.”

“He looked like he wanted to die,” Huling said, quietly.

“He’s not used to that sort of thing, is all. You took him by surprise.”

“How did you do it? How did you get him? Did he look like that when you…”

Crowley sighed. “It was worse, trust me.” He was remembering a near-miss Apocalypse, a column of Hellfire, a bath of holy water, and subsequent run-ins with various angels and demons that led them to confess their love after six thousand years. “He didn’t look like he wanted to die, but it was plenty rough.”

Huling put his elbows on the table, and leaned one cheek against a fist. “Well, you’re a lucky bugger. You seem to realise that. You’ve got something exquisite, Mr. Crowley, right in the palm of your hand."

“Oh, you have no idea just how exquisite, Huling.”

Huling sighed, took a pause, then said, “I’m afraid, too exquisite to just, you know… have it off and say goodbye.”

Crowley drained his glass. “It’s hard to argue with that. It took us years and years to finally be together because I had similar thoughts... too exquisite for the likes of me. Well, there are other reasons, too, but that was a big one.”

He had to admit to himself that this little temptation was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.

“I’m sorry this was a wasted journey for you…”

“Huling, without telling you too much of my life’s story, let’s just say, I’ve talked with a lot of people at the ends of their lives. And do you know what they all say is their biggest regret?”

“The things they didn’t do?” Huling asked, sardonically.

“Exactly. The opportunity not seized. It's a cliché, but it's the truth.”

“I get that. I want to seize as much as anyone. I’m just not the sort of bloke who… you know.”

“Who what? Who can make love without creating war? Who can carpe the diem, enjoy the ‘exquisite’ things that life has to offer, and not feel heartbroken when it’s over?”

“Who goes to bed with someone, knowing full well it’s going nowhere. Knowing that no relationship will ever develop. And especially two someones at a time! I wouldn’t even know what to… how to…”

“Huling, I don’t want to get vulgar or cruel, but… just indulge me. My questions are rhetorical, so you don’t have to worry about judgement, all right? How long have you carried this torch? How intense is it? How much do you think about him? How many different fantasies have you had about him? And I’m not talking about the kind where you get married and adopt twins from Syria. I’m talking about the other kind of fantasy. How many different things have you thought about doing with him? To him? Or him to you?”

“Mr. Crowley…”

Crowley leaned across the table again, and lowered his voice to his most intimate-sounding, most tempting, most compelling, mesmerising tone. “Huling, have you ever dreamed up a detailed scenario, for just you and him? Maybe over the course of several weeks, you build upon it, changing details here and there? Like, maybe you start with, say, an exotic cheese course that you feed to each other, and then progress to licking each other’s fingers, then licking other things until you suddenly realise you’ve wanked all over yourself? Have you used that scenario again in the shower or in bed, varying the dialogue just a bit, tweaking the cheeses, adding kisses, changing the venue from a picnic in the park to a rooftop in Paris? Done this in spite of yourself, carried it all the way to completion, and then fallen into a funk because post-orgasm, you reckon you’re doomed?”

“Oh my God,” Huling whined, buring his face in his hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Huling peeked at him through two fingers. “Sounds like I’m not the only one, though.”

“You’re not,” Crowley whispered. “You and I, we want the same thing – we both want him. Huling, I’ve got him in my bed most nights, and it’s still like fire in my veins all the fucking time.”

“Can’t fault you for that, mate.”

“This afternoon, he asked me, what’s wrong with wondering what’s out there, and sampling it?”

“He said that?”

“Yep. With that beatific look on his face, and that voice that melts my knees.”

“Mine too.”

“And now I ask you the same question: what’s wrong with having a taste? I won’t lie and say that if you seize the moment, you can have what I have. But you could, if you take a chance, just have one forkful of the dessert on my plate. Have what you covet, just this once.”

Crowley allowed Huling a few minutes to fall into thought.

Then, the fromager said, almost in a confessional tone, “I just can’t escape this feeling that I’d be trading my soul for something that feels good. Something that might hurt, in the end.”

“I know about trading souls for things, my friend, and that’s not what you'd be doing,” Crowley assured him, pouring two fresh glasses of port, and clinking them before taking a sip. “You would be assuring yourself that you will never regret the ‘not doing’. You would never have to say that you died never knowing… him. What he’s like. How he feels. Without knowing for sure that that little confection is as fucking delicious as you’ve always imagined. And I can’t guarantee it won’t hurt a little - sometimes pain is good. Or, at least cathartic.”

"It would be a lot of pain."

Crowley nodded. "Okay. I get that. Something to think about. Worth exploring. I would help you with that bit of it, you wanted."

Huling looked at him, seemingly with supplication. “How delicious is he? Really.”

Crowley sat back and took a moment. Then, emphatically, he began, “Oh, Huling. He’ll fulfill every fantasy you’ve ever had. He will do anything you ask. He is insatiable. He is skilled. He is a little bit slutty, and efficiently accommodating – it’s an intoxicating combination.”

Huling swallowed hard, and leaned his forehead against his clasped hands over the table. He put the weight on his elbows, and said. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Go on.”

“He can also be militant, demanding. He orchestrates scenarios for me on occasion that are elaborate, finely-tuned, a bit prissy, but massively fucking filthy. Like, sometimes you-need-a-dry-cleaner-and-a-carpet-shampooer filthy.”

“Uggghhh…” Huling whined.

Crowley’s eyes seemed to glaze over then, and he stared past Huling at nothing in particular. “And… he’s warm. Warm, like your best friend, and also like that bread pudding that you can’t help but devour. He his Heavenly. Truly, madly, Heavenly.”

“I’m crumbling.”

“Because you know that I know. He is exquisite, as you said, but delightfully profane at the same time. He is, Huling, a bloody fantastic lover – the best you will ever have. And he wants to give himself to you, and to me, just once. It was my idea, but he agreed that you’re worth the trouble. And if you let me walk away from here without at least a date set, won’t you always wonder? Wonder what if? ‘What if I could have had my mind blown, or whatever else I fancied, and touched perfection just one time?’”

“Yes. I will, damn it.”

“And if I’m wrong, or exaggerating, or full of shit, at least you’ll know. And you can start extricating yourself from the fantasy, the anguish…”

“Yeah,” Huling said, letting his forearms flop onto the table. “But you’re not exaggerating, or full of shit, are you?”

“No, not even a little bit. Do you have any idea how much less complicated my life would have been thus far, if he weren’t so fucking amazing, in every fucking way?”

Huling paused, and then, “And he knows you’re here? This isn’t just some big, possibly misguided surprise for him?”

“He knows.”

“Okay. One more question.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s his first name? I have never known it.”

Crowley sighed. He hated this question, when it came to Aziraphale. He had never adopted for himself a name that easily morphed into a palatable English moniker. “Legally, it’s Aaron,” Crowley told him, truthfully. “But he’s an angel, so that’s what I call him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how did I do, with the circumstances I've been given (or have created for myself)?
> 
> Does the chapter meet its goals?
> 
> Again, the chapter was bound to be controversial, so I'm really keen to hear from you! I feel I'm out on a limb here - what are your thoughts?


	29. Something Resembling The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talk, ramping up to Huling's visit.
> 
> And of course, the first bit of Huling's visit. 
> 
> Humor and feels!
> 
> Let's get the ball rolling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, friends, here we go. First contact!
> 
> Once again, I had to choose my battles. This story would wind up being impossibly long if I tackled every issue that's on all of our minds.
> 
> Plus, I did want to add in a giggle or two, because it can't all be caution and seriousness! And anyway, It's been in the back of my mind all along that Aziraphale and Crowley would eventually have to have a "cover story" for how they know each other, and be able to answer all those questions that people ask couples. 
> 
> Enjoy!

To his great amusement, Crowley returned home that evening to find his towheaded partner lounging on the sofa in pyjamas, watching "The Golden Girls."

After taking the opportunity to good-naturedly mock, he relayed the highlights of his confab with Huling. In addition to being the owner of a gourmet cheesery, he is a one-time wrestler recovering from a gambling addiction who now sponsors other recovering gamblers, has a sensitive palate, two siblings, and a cat named after Brian May.

Most of this was a surprise to Aziraphale, of course – apart from the sensitive palate bit – though he was delighted to learn more about their favourite fromager.

Crowley did, however, win his partner’s disapproval for some of the temptation tactics he had used. Namely, singing the praises of Aziraphale as a great lover, and using his own delectable dessert metaphor. 

“It’s rather misleading, don’t you think? Not to mention distasteful. Pardon the pun.”

“No, it’s not misleading. I was charming like always, but I didn’t lie to him, angel. And also… seriously?” the former demon asked, standing directly between Aziraphale and the paused television. “You’re getting uppity with me NOW, about being good at getting people to do stuff they wouldn’t normally do? I’m sorry, have we just met?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Did you make it clear that it’s just a one-off? That this does not mean we are now a…”

“Throuple?”

“A… er, yes. Is that really a word?”

“In the twenty-first century, it is. And yes, while I was shaking our friend to his very core with the horrible possibility of never knowing the magic that is you, I believe I said ‘just this once’ rather pointedly, several times.”

“So, he’s agreed?”

“He has agreed on a ‘who knows what else?’ basis.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means he’s coming for drinks. But the rest is contingent upon… well, frankly, how he feels when he gets here. What kind of vibe he gets from you, from me, from the two of us.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, with his hands in his lap. “I find myself strangely afraid of a possible rejection. What sort of thing do you think could make him demur?”

Crowley sighed, and put both hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry to tell you this, angel, but mostly you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I think he likes me just fine, but you are his interest. You are the delectable dessert. You are the elaborate masturbatory fantasy for which he’s bothering to turn up at all.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“What? I verified it."

"You did what?" Aziraphale shrieked.

"Why are you surprised? That’s how this whole thing came about! He wants you. Actually, it’s possibly deeper than that. It’s a thing that has had years to develop. Over time, he’s had the wherewithal to wonder what you’re like when things get flowing… wine, blood, saliva… other bodily fluids.”

“Crowley, really!”

“And he has got a chance to find out, but knows that everything reverts back to normal in the morning. When I left him, he was thinking it might be worth it, even if the morning hurts. When he gets here, gets to see you with your guard down, sitting, having a meal, having a conversation, knowing he gets to touch you later…” Crowley’s throat went dry, and he trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Angel, I’ve been there. Being with you, being tantalised by the prospect of touching you, and thinking I’d never have you. Not for real, not in any kind of meaningful way.”

“I’ve been there too, remember?”

Crowley got to his knees and leaned across the coffee table. “Right. So, what if you’d gone to bed with me that first time, all those months ago, knowing we’d have to walk away from each other in the morning? Would you still have done it?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because it might have destroyed me," Aziraphale said without hesitation.

“Yeah. Me too. Now, Huling doesn’t have the burden of six thousand years of pining, but five years is about an eighth of his life thus far. It’s a significant amount of time for a human to pine. I won’t say it might destroy him, but it will certainly hurt.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“So, all I’m saying is, if he gets here and decides that you’re too fucking amazing, he might just bugger off on home after drinks. And you and I have to be okay with that.”

“So, are you saying I should be… what, less witty and charming than usual? I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

“No, I’m not saying that!” Crowley practically shouted. Then he sighed. With exasperation, he explained, “You asked me what might make him demur. He’s agreed to come round, but he made no promises about anything else – he just knows he’s invited to join us for whatever we should decide to do that night. Drinks, hors d'oeuvres, parcheesi, a ‘Hamilton’ singalong, or perhaps a several hours of explosive, chaotic, noisy sex. And what might make him change his mind? He’s kind of in love you with you, Aziraphale, and he can never have you. And if he doesn’t think he can handle having you, then not having you, then that’s his prerogative. That’s what I’m saying.”

“All right, Crowley. No need to get exorcised.”

“You know I hate that word.”

“Sorry.”

“Just be yourself. Do what you do. Be the beatific bastard I love, and that he loves. And we’ll hope that he gives himself a chance to sample you. Because the more I think about him…”

“…sampling me?”

“Mm-hm. The more I wish I could still just sleep for the next eight days and make the time pass quickly.” Crowley gave a naughty eyebrow tilt and admired his radiant partner, sitting properly on the sofa. Then he asked, “How about you? Any second thoughts?”

“No, actually. My interest is piqued.”

Crowley smirked. “There’s euphemism if ever I heard one.”

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat. “Indeed.”

“Still, I’m thinking, just to be on the safe side, if you’re unhappy at any point, just do what you always do: compare the situation to ‘The Sound of Music.' You do that and I’ll figure out a way to get Huling out the door, okay?”

“All right. But what about you? What if you’re unhappy?”

“I dunno. I don’t see it happening. I’ll just say something about Norse Mythology.”

“What do you know about Norse Mythology?”

“Erm… nothing. Except what I’ve learned from Marvel.”

“From whom?”

“Don’t worry about me, angel. I’m the one who got us into this. If I’m unhappy, I’ll deal with it myself.”

“That’s not now this works. Aren’t we a partnership?”

“Fine. I’ll say, ‘Loki was adopted.’”

“Loki was adopted?”

“It’s all I’ve got, and I think we can pretty safely say that it won’t come up in the normal course of things.”

“Fine. So… what do we need to do to prepare?”

“Well, for one, we should get our stories straight.”

“Excuse me?”

“First question he’ll ask is, how long we have been together,” Crowley said.

“How can you be sure?”

“Okay, maybe it’ll be the second or third question. But he’s going to want to know, and you and I have been dodging that question since the beginning. Well, not The Beginning, beginning, but since… you know…”

“All right,” Aziraphale sighed. “Why not the truth? Why not six-ish months as a proper couple, but we’ve been, let’s say, mutually-desirous friends, colleagues, adversaries, et cetera, et cetera, for a lot longer.”

Crowley pulled a face, and shook his head. “Six months isn’t long enough for him to take us seriously.”

“What does that mean?”

Crowley shrugged. “What if he thinks, ‘well, blimey, after only six months, the incredibly lovely and monumentally clever bookseller could still be lured away from that flashy hipster who is totally beneath him.’”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Crowley, don’t be tedious. You’re not beneath me and you know it.”

“Well, sometimes I kind of am, but that’s not the point. The point is, you could see how Cheese Man might think I am, yeah?”

“Perhaps, but even if he does think that, he wouldn’t be correct – I can’t be lured away.”

“It’s a kind of drama we don’t need, if he thinks he can keep on taking swings at you.”

“If you’re worried about that, Crowley, then why they Hell are we doing this?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, yeah, point taken.” He walked around in a circle in their parlour, and said, “I still say we ought to tell him more than six months.”

“Fine. How about six years? The reason being, the current state of our, let’s say, political alliance as we know it, began eleven years ago when we decided to thwart the Ineffable Plan. I can’t speak for you, but looking back, I began to feel even closer to you at that time… not that I would have admitted it to myself, mind you.”

“Yes, that last part, I know,” Crowley muttered. 

“So I thought, perhaps we say we’ve been together for six years, which was when we both moved into the Dowlings’ place, but before that, we were…”

“I like your wording from before. ‘Mutually-desirous friends, colleagues, adversaries.’ For about five years.”

“Which adds up to eleven years, we’ve been entangled with one another, in some titillating way, during which neither of us had any sort of meaningful entanglement with anyone else.”

Crowley smiled, and began to nod. “It’s a good number – eleven. Not round, so as to sound made-up. I like it. And yeah – there is a kind of poetic appropriateness about you and me, and the last eleven years.”

“I like it, too. The dates are meaningful for us, and that will have to be our little secret. Not just with Mr. Huling, but with all people from now on, who ask us our origin story, as it were.”

“Yeah, speaking of that, the second question he will ask is, how we met. Or, perhaps the first question. I don’t know – anyway, it’ll be in the top three.”

“Right. ‘How did you boys meet?’ We’ve been leaping past that question like drunken gazelles.”

“Well, I’m not doing a ‘meet cute,’” Crowley grumbled.

“What’s a ‘meet cute?’”

“Just what it sounds like. Two people meet in some stupid cute way. Like you were walking home with an armful of flowers, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I ploughed into you with my bicycle. Flowers went everywhere and everyone was embarrassed. And I felt bad, so I took you out to dinner to make up for it, and the rest is history.”

Aziraphale frowned. “No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. How trite.”

“Thank you. Glad you see it my way.”

“I was just thinking that since you already told him that you used to be some sort of ‘fixer’ for a large corporation, and he already knows what I do, we could start there.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good idea.”

“After all, we did meet in the course of doing our respective jobs. Might as well stick as closely to the truth as possible.”

“Which will be… well, not that close, but okay, I get it.”

“Everything we say will be symbolic, of course. Much like the question of our time together.”

“But sticking to something familiar will help us avoid slip-ups,” Crowley pointed out.

“So, shall we make up a corporation?”

“What, like ‘Hell’s Bells Incorporated?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes again. “No, that’s daft.”

“Oh! Have you ever seen the film ‘You’ve Got Mail?’”

“Of course not.”

“Well, it has one premise that might work for us.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

At Aziraphale’s behest, “drinks and who knows what else” had become “dinner, and who knows what else,” because, he reckoned, it was the least they could do, and gave everyone more time to become comfortable with one another.

Just after noon on the day of their “date,” Crowley had gone to Huling’s shop to purchase a wheel of Brie, and a block of Parmesan, to say hello, have a bit of a flirt, and give the man a chance to back out.

But he hadn’t.

Aziraphale made a pastry crust, rolled it out and wrapped it round the Brie, but Crowley did everything else for the baked Brie hors d’oeuvre. He had mixed the sauce and candied the cranberries and cut the slices of baguette and readied them for toasting. He had also prepared the ingredients for arrabbiata pasta with Italian sausage for the main course. There were also grilled aubergine slices for the side dish, and lemon-lavender gelato for dessert, if anyone fancied it.

Huling turned up for dinner at half-past seven in a blue and white gingham dress shirt, and navy blue flat-front trousers. Aziraphale answered the door in his usual garb, although with only waistcoat, no overcoat. It was as casual as he’d dare get on a night when everything felt new.

Poor Huling blushed hard upon seeing him, and this made Aziraphale smile, in spite of himself. “Now, now, don’t do that,” he scolded. He reached forward and took Huling’s arm, and guided him into the flat. “There’s no need for that diffident rouging business. We’re all a bit on the back foot tonight, and you are very, very welcome here.”

The fromager cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you. Very much,” and he smiled shyly at the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Then he seemed to remember himself and handed Aziraphale a bottle of wine. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but this wine is excellent with baked Brie. Erm, Crowley said when he came in today that you were at home rolling out pastry, and he bought a wheel of Mon Sire, so I just assumed…”

“Ah, Pinot Noir by Louis Jadot!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “One of my favourites. And it probably isn’t the worst idea to get a glass into you, post-haste. Do come in!”

Actually, Louis Jadot was an unremarkable brand, and Aziraphale didn’t fancy it at all. However, he had tried some of Huling’s wine/cheese pairing recommendations before, and had found them to be, on occasion, revelatory. So he led his guest into the kitchen, and enthusiastically opened the bottle, pouring three glasses, just as Crowley pulled the baked Brie from the oven.

Crowley went over to a somewhat hidden pantry behind the kitchen backsplash, and dragged out two collapsible stools. It gave Aziraphale and Huling somewhere to sit, sip, where they could all chat, while Crowley finished cooking.

The former angel and his admirer dug into the hors d’oeuvre with gusto. Aziraphale sampled the wine, and deemed it (privately), not bad. Then he asked, “So, how was your day at the fromagerie, mon ami?”

“Horrifically slow, actually,” Huling replied, with his mouth a bit full. “Which worked out well, since I had to leave early to pretty myself up for you boys.”

“Oh, I love days when I can close the shop early!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“What? That’s every day,” Crowley pointed out.

“I didn’t close – I just left my sister to it,” said Huling.

“I see. What did she say when you told her where you were going?” Aziraphale asked.

Huling looked down at his hands in his lap. “She wished me luck in a slightly lewd way. I had hoped just to let her think that I was headed out on a date with Crowley. Easier that way. Though I don’t think she believes me. She heard Crowley mention the bookshop, and knows about my, er…”

“Crush?” Crowley asked, helpfully.

“Yes,” Huling replied. “So, I can only imagine what she actually thinks.”

“Perhaps something resembling the truth?” said Crowley with a little smirk.

Huling sighed heavily. “Probably. Which is embarrassing, because she's my sister and doesn't need to know anything resembling this particular truth, but what's done is done, eh? Anyway, she’s going to be disappointed in the morning when I tell her that Crowley and I have decided to be just friends.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m sure that it will be all for the best. You and he aren’t suited for one another anyway.”

Huling took a long pull off his wine, and said, “So, speaking of not suited… how did you two meet? Sorry, you just seem like polar opposites. I guess that’s why it didn’t occur to me for a long time, who Crowley was to you, though I’d seen him come in and out of the bookshop quite a lot.”

Aziraphale smiled, and began to relay the story they had laid out during the previous week. “Crowley worked for Voyage Media International. They wanted my shop, and the one next door, so they could build a megastore in Soho. But I wouldn’t sell.”

“Wow. Well, on behalf of the small business owners of Soho, thank you,” Huling said, with his hand at his heart. “So, I’m guessing Crowley was the guy they sent in to threaten you.”

“Yes, but he didn’t threaten me. He was professional, businesslike… then became friendlier. After a while, he just started coming in to see me. Month after month, year after year. He told them he was leaning on me, making thinly-veiled menaces, plying me with lawyers, trying to blackmail me, et cetera, et cetera, but he never did any of that. He’d just come to say hello, and have a drink, have a chat…”

“And eventually a snog?” Huling asked, with a searching smile.

“Not for a long, long, long time,” Aziraphale said. “It took YEARS for us to get that far. For, oh, five-or-so years, we remained sort of mutually-desirous friends, colleagues adversaries… we must’ve had a million lunches and dinners together during that time. It was a long row to hoe.”

“Well, I can see why! Corporate fixer thug, and independent business owner, vying for the same territory. You’re supposed to be opponents, yet you find common ground, you find friendship, and more… I imagine that if Crowley’s people found out that the majority of his evil-doing had been social calls, he’d have been…”

“Sacked?” Crowley asked, with a wink, whisking heavy cream into the tomato sauce.

“Oh!” Huling exclaimed. “Really? You were sacked for it?”

“Well, first they tried to burn me alive, but when that didn’t work, I was sacked,” Crowley quipped.

“Sacked for your associations, and for being a decent guy. Tsk. You could have a viable lawsuit on your hands, if you chose to pursue it.”

“Nah – I violated my contract any way you look at it. However, don’t misunderstand. Plenty of my evil-doing was actually evil.”

“So, how long have you been together?” Huling wondered.

“Officially, just over six years,” Aziraphale answered, with a little smile. “Unofficially, more like eleven.”

“Six official years,” Huling mused.

“Yes, but it feels like millennia.” Aziraphale then sighed, and added, “Although, sometimes, it feels like the blink of an eye.”

“And you live here full time?”

“These days, yes. Truth be told, most of my things are still in my flat above the bookshop, but I find that I don’t need much more than good food, access to music, my clothes, and… well, Crowley.”

“Hear hear!” Crowley said, stepping over to clink his glass against Aziraphale’s, and drink heartily.

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley’s last step in food-prep was peeling of a few layers of Huling’s Parmesan cheese over their heaping plates of pasta and sausage. Then they all moved to the table, and opened a bottle of Chianti. 

As they suspected might happen, their “backgrounds” came in to play. Fortunately, they had also laid out “life stories” over the past week, just in case.

It all started because Huling asked how a modest bookshop owner was able to resist the temptation of a big sell-out to a corporation. Crowley had advised him that “coming from money” should probably be a part of his personal history, so Aziraphale answered that he could resist because monetary reward was of no importance to him as a result of his family’s resources. Meandering round the topic led to Crowley’s story about being ostracised by his family for being too much of a black sheep (a sort of real-world version of being cast out of Heaven). 

At the end of the meal, Huling complimented the chef, and complained of feeling quite full. 

“If we had a terrace, I’d suggest we sit on it and wait for our food to settle,” Crowley said, standing up from the table. “As it is, I’ll suggest retiring to our parlour.”

“We do have gelato for later,” Aziraphale pointed out, with his eyes dancing.

“Oh please… later,” Huling said, with a chuckle.

For an hour, they sat, talked, drained their glasses.

Sometime around ten o’clock, Aziraphale stood up and said, “Well, forgive me, gentlemen, but I’m going to go relax a bit… maybe change out of these clothes, light some candles in the bedroom. Whoever would like to visit me in five minutes is welcome to – I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

“You’ve had quite a bit of wine, haven’t you?” Crowley asked, smirking.

“Just enough,” answered his partner, stepping into the adjacent room, and closing the door.

\---------------------------------------------

Crowley and Aziraphale could both remember a time when it was considered perfectly safe to light twenty-seven candles in the same room, balancing on ancient candelabras and melting all over everything. Not only safe, but quite necessary. Not to mention the fact that the two of them could stop dripping wax, or a fire, if necessary, with a snap of their fingers.

Tonight, Aziraphale settled for four citrus-scented jar candles – two on the credenza near the door, and one on each nightstand. To complete the effect, he used the dimmer switch to adjust the cone-shaped halogen lamps that hung from the ceiling above the bed, giving the illusion that the entire room was bathed in firelight.

He discarded his clothing and slipped into the soft grey robe that he had purchased in the 1950s as a way of swaddling himself in Crowley’s symbolic presence. It would signal to Huling that he was ready to be touched, and to Crowley that he was still his. Plus, it mitigated his prim-and-proper air, and with it, some of his nervousness. He no longer felt the need to act upright and respectable, thereby wondering what to do next.

He opened the door, signalling that he was ready, but said nothing.

He could hear the low rumble of a private conversation, but within a minute, Crowley appeared outside the door, and he gestured for Huling to go in first. The latter did, and stopped short upon seeing Aziraphale sitting upon the bed, on “his” side.

“Oh my God,” Huling whispered. “This is real.”

“Only if you want it to be,” Aziraphale said to him.

“I want it to be.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly nervously, then said, “Good.”

"I can feel it in the pit of my stomach - almost always can. One of the few things I've ever wanted that keeps me up nights sometimes."

“I’m sorry if it causes you pain,” Aziraphale said sincerely. “Let’s try to be pain-free this evening. Won’t you come closer?”

Huling took a few steps forward, while Crowley leaned coolly against the doorjamb with his arms and legs crossed, watching.

The guest now stood directly in front of Aziraphale, just out of arm’s reach. He smiled, and said very softly, tentatively, “Pain is necessary – sometimes it’s good. The pain I feel now is completely worth it.”

“The pain you feel now?” asked Aziraphale, worriedly.

Huling looked at Crowley for a long moment, then back at Aziraphale. “He says you’re an angel. I’m inclined to agree – even more now, after getting to know you tonight. And I am dreading walking away, in the end. I hope I’ll find the strength.”

Aziraphale said, “Humans always find their strength when they search for it, and make the right choices."

"Yes."

Aziraphale took a pregnant pause, then, "Is this the right choice for you, Craig?”

“I can’t help but believe it is. Knowing versus not knowing. Experiencing, versus playing it safe.”

“Then, well…” Aziraphale whispered, then he gulped hard.

There was a heavy silence which went on for a beat too long, but which Crowley broke by asking, from his position in the doorway, “What have you always fancied doing, Huling? Let us into your mind, and we’ll proceed along with you.”

Huling took a deep breath, and sat down beside Aziraphale. He reached out with one hand, grasped Aziraphale’s jaw, and pulled him in for a kiss. It remained merely a lip-lock for a few moments, and then their guest opened his lips, leading Aziraphale to do the same. He plunged a hungry tongue into the former angel’s mouth, and groaned, grasping the other side of his jaw with the other hand.

At the groan, Crowley felt the first twinge. There was a touch of jealousy, yes, but mostly, there were naughty tingles below the waist. And it was just a kiss. 

This was going to be bloody magnificent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think? *biting nails* I really want to hear from you! (Only fair, yeah?)
> 
> FYI: the encounter between our ineffable duo and Huling will take up two chapters. This much effort and buildup deserves more than just a oneshot chapter. Mostly, though, I can't cover everything I want to, physically, emotionally, symbolically, in one chapter without rendering it too fast, and meaningless.
> 
> But THIS chapter. What are your thoughts and feelings about THIS one, even before our characters get their kits off?


	30. This Is Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go - our favorite couple hits the sheets (metaphorically) with Craig Huling. Sparks will fly!
> 
> Obviously, don't read this in mixed company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much appreciated the dialogue I’ve been able to have with some of the readers here… I’ve gotten to hear concerns, suggestions, fears, and learned quite a lot in the process. Something like this requires some introspection from the author, as well as research (though, arguably, I didn’t do enough). I have tried very hard to handle this sensitively, safely, but realistically. I've tried not to turn any of our characters into jerks, which would have been very easy to do, given Crowley's role as instigator and tempter. Thank you for your consideration, investment, and commentary!
> 
> I’d like to address some comments that were made by multiple people, on this forum, as well as one other.
> 
> 1\. Safe word. I hate this phrase – I’m not sure why! Notice that neither of them uses the phrase itself (though it does come up later in the game). However, I recognize its importance in a situation like this, so I had to include the CONCEPT, if not the actual phrase, ‘safe word.’ I decided to make it amusing by playing on Aziraphale’s as-yet-unexplained disdain for a certain Rodgers & Hammerstein musical, which I find incredibly funny!
> 
> 2\. The Robe. Thanks for noticing that little detail. It came up in the previous story… Aziraphale purchased it in the 1950s as a way to symbolically cloak himself in Crowley’s presence, even at a time in history when he was not fully admitting to his feelings. Crowley knows this, and I thought it might be a good unspoken bit of communication between them. Though I think we'll find, especially in the NEXT chapter, that they don't much need it.
> 
> 3\. Possible harm. We all know this could have been a disaster (it’s not going to be, but realistically, it could have been). A few people have mentioned their appreciation of the parties’ acknowledgement that this might be too hard on Huling, and how he needs to be able to bail out if he wants, and his hosts need to be okay with that. But also a few people have mentioned feeling a vested interest in Huling’s well-being. Thank you for that – that makes me, as a writer, feel good!
> 
> 4\. Consent/letting Huling lead. I didn’t let Huling lead with the concept of “consent” in mind. I suppose I was just thinking, Crowley just wants to see what will happen. Aziraphale is sort of along for the ride. So, since Huling’s the one with the fantasies, why not let him take the first step? Actually, I wondered if it might be insensitive to expect him to make the first move, since he’s the guest, but that’s not how it was perceived, which is great!
> 
> 5\. POV. We will get a taste of everyone’s feelings, one way or another, but I did not write it with multiple points of view. Hopefully, it will answer at least some of your questions about everyone’s motivations!
> 
> Here are my own thoughts/concerns:
> 
> 1\. Huling thought of a safeguard that our ineffable boys did not, and surprisingly, didn’t turn up in any of the comments leading up to this. Hope you like it! 
> 
> 2\. It is difficult enough writing smut that is both filthy and romantic. But when you add a third person, you add to it the problem of explaining logistics without getting overly mechanical, and changing “activities” occasionally without getting absurd.
> 
> 3\. On the same topic, I’ve always had a little bit of a pronoun problem, as I’m writing all-male characters tangling body parts. Mentioning their names too often feels weird, but if I keep using masculine pronouns randomly, it’ll be confusing. So I did what I could.
> 
> This was a fun, titillating experience. But also challenging, and somewhat emotional. Please be kind.
> 
> And with all of that said, *gulp* on with the show! Enjoy!

There was a heavy silence, which Crowley broke by asking, from his position in the doorway, “What have you always fancied doing, Huling? Let us into your mind, and we’ll proceed along with you.”

Huling took a deep breath, and sat down beside Aziraphale. He reached out with one hand, grasped Aziraphale’s jaw, and pulled him in for a kiss. It remained merely a lip-lock for a few moments, and then their guest opened his lips, leading Aziraphale to do the same. He plunged a hungry tongue into the former angel’s mouth, and groaned, grasping the other side of his jaw with the other hand.

At the groan, Crowley felt the first twinge. There was a touch of jealousy, yes, but mostly, there were naughty tingles below the waist. And it was just a kiss. 

This was going to be bloody magnificent.

Aziraphale’s hands continued to rest reservedly in his lap. Crowley said, “Reach out, angel, it’s okay.”

The next thing Huling knew, there was a hand on one of his thighs, and another on the side of his neck. The kiss deepened, and the two of them moved even closer together on the bed, pulling at one another just a bit.

Crowley now stepped into the room, closed the door (for some reason), and sat down in the armchair. He watched from a deceptively lazy pose, with interest, with lust, with barely-contained excitement. A kiss is just a kiss, but one that demonstrates coveting, Huling’s rather desperate desire for one former angel… it was more than a kiss, probably to everyone in the room.

Aziraphale soon found that Huling’s slippery mouth was now travelling down his jawline, planting kisses every inch or so. 

“Oh, you are divine,” the man whispered in his ear. “Just flawless. Delicious…” With that, he gave a lick behind Aziraphale’s ear that caused the latter to make his first noise since the snogging began – a groan, and heavy inhalation. Spurred on by the reaction, Huling began to suck on the sensitive flesh just behind the ear, and just below. Aziraphale groaned again, grasping tightly at the man’s arms, and a tent began to form underneath the bit of robe that was draped over his lap.

“That’s so nice… it feels… it…” Aziraphale breathed. 

The next thing he knew, he felt something loosely gripping his cock, through the fabric. “I understand,” Huling whispered. “You don’t have to finish that sentence.”

He gave it a few gentle strokes, eliciting soft groans from both of them. “I can’t believe this is real,” he whispered, continuing to stroke, and also pulling open the upper portion of the soft grey robe, and planting kisses across Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Huling then dropped to the floor and manoeuvred himself onto his knees in front of the object of his long-frustrated desire. He reached forward and tugged at the waist sash of the robe, and it came loose. Aziraphale lay back on his elbows, helping the garment open, and exposing his entire body, including a hard shaft with a bulbous purple head, laying heavily against his stomach.

He was nervous, and not as turned-on as he’d be were it Crowley kneeling there but he reminded himself this was all happening at Crowley’s behest, for his pleasure. That thought helped. He stiffened, and looked to his left, as ever, to find his partner watching him intently. Crowley gave a naughty tip of the eyebrow. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale found that he was plenty eager to have his member sheathed in a warm, tight, pulling mouth. The mouth of someone new – in theory, a foreign experience.

For a long few moments, Huling just sat back on his haunches and stared at him. His eyes seemed to rove over every inch of the nude body before him, his breathing seemed to be laboured, then hitched in his throat. Then he lurched forward and wrapped his hands possessively around Aziraphale’s middle, and kissed his way across the slightly rounded stomach, and down… down…

Across the hips and pelvis, inner thighs…

He grasped the bobbing, stiffening phallus in his hand, stroked for about a minute, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I just can’t get my mind round this… I’ve thought about this cock so many times.”

Crowley gave his signature lusty laugh/groan, and there was the sound of a zip going.

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale asked, straining, breathless. 

“Yes,” Huling replied. “It has lived for a long time inside my mind. Never imagined it this magnificent. Never dared.”

He licked his lips and examined the thing in his hand for a moment, then slid his mouth over the head of it, and all the way down, as far as he could go. All three men moaned at this. Crowley spat on his hand, and began to stroke himself.

Huling's mouth was taut, scorching, and slick. He worked it up and down Aziraphale's member, varied his speed, his strokes, his grip… it felt quite good. Better than good, actually. And to Aziraphale, being serviced by a newcomer felt decidedly different, which was, in and of itself, intensely stimulating. He felt the proper tightening, mounting, the usual involuntary moans escaping from him, even though Huling could not take the entire shaft in his mouth and down his throat as Crowley could. But he moaned and slurped, and compensated by using one hand at the base, and his tongue in wicked ways; his technique was new to Aziraphale, and thereore a little bit mind-blowing. His rhythm, depth and texture were different from Crowley’s, the top of his head different from Crowley’s, his slurps and moans different from Crowley’s.

Aziraphale looked to his left one more time, to find Crowley slouched in the armchair, dick in-hand, pulling moderately hard, eyes glued to the scene.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like that, angel,” he growled, watching Huling's head bobbing in his partner's lap.

“Do you think so?”

“Lounging back all naked like a spoiled film star, robe spilling over your shoulders, eyes glazed over with lust, and getting sucked off by someone who can’t bloody believe you’re real. Yeah – gorgeous. I don’t know how much longer I can just watch.”

With a wet pop, Huling released the cock from his mouth. He asked Crowley with a little smile, “Would you like to reconfigure? I’d hate to be selfish.”

“Since you asked…” Crowley said.

Huling stood up and took the opportunity to begin removing clothing, starting with his button-up shirt. Crowley did the same thing – only much less carefully. He climbed out of his clothes in record time, then went over to his side of the bed. He crawled across and encouraged Aziraphale to lie all the way down. Then he gave him an upside-down kiss on the mouth. 

“Angel,” Crowley cooed. “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when we went to the symphony, and what we did in the loo?”

“Of course, my love.”

“Dare I ask?” Huling said, pushing his trousers down his legs. Crowley had been hoping he would, indeed, ask.

Crowley lay on his side, leaning on one elbow, and explained, “He got on his knees for me during intermission, and I gave his mouth a deep fucking. He took it like a champ. Like a slut. Like always.”

Huling was now completely naked, muscular, compact, his dick totally, admirably erect. He bent and picked up his trousers, reached into the pocket, and to the astonishment of both his hosts, casually tossed a bundle of condoms into the bed.

This had, of course, not occurred to either of them. In fact, Aziraphale wasn't even entirely sure of what they were, though could guess from context.

Huling noticed nothing amiss, and knelt once again between Aziraphale’s knees, but only stroked the strong legs on either side of him, waiting to see what else would be said.

Aziraphale and Crowley were a bit stunned, then the former recovered himself, and spoke.

“I would gladly do it again,” he cooed to his partner.

“I’m very glad to hear that. The reason I ask is, I’m wondering if you also remember what I said about mouth-fucking,” Crowley asked, his voice low, intimate.

Aziraphale’s speech and vision were somewhat clouded by their new friend’s mouth now planting kisses once again inside of his thighs, still clearly listening to the lascivious conversation.

“I remember…” he breathed. “You said you could do it better. Make it feel like my mouth and throat were made for it.”

“Mm-hm, if we had a bed, some room, and some time,” Crowley lilted. “I believe that at this moment, we have all three.”

“Just tell me what to do,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley was already moving to stand up on his side of the bed. “Move toward me. Stay on your back, and hang your head off the bed.”

Huling smiled a bit. “Do you think he can do it? That takes skill.”

“I know he can,” Crowley answered as Aziraphale situated himself. 

Crowley bent his knees and eased his throbbing, leaking dick into his lover’s mouth, then down his throat. Huling watched with fascination as the entire member disappeared between Aziraphale’s lips. “Shit,” he breathed, absently stroking his own cock. “He’s fucking amazing.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it yet, Huling,” Crowley moaned, bracing his hands on the bed, and beginning to thrust his hips. He went slowly, hoping to give his partner time to acclimate. He grunted as he buried himself to the hilt, then he pulled out again, only to repeat.

Huling crawled over Aziraphale and lowered himself down, resuming sucking, and now also rolling his tightened bollocks between nimble fingers. Crowley watched with fascination, tightening desire, every second seeing most of his angel’s dick disappear into the mouth of someone else, and his own dick disappear into his angel’s mouth. He began to thrust faster, swear harder, and long more and more for a big pop, and a gushing release.

If not his, then someone else's. 

Crowley could now see Huling’s arse muscles flexing against the edge of the bed. “Careful, Huling. We just dry-cleaned that comforter.”

When Huling looked up, he winked.

Crowley held Aziraphale’s temples steady, and now grunted each time his cockhead plunged into the willing throat. He worked himself up watching Huling, and vice versa. Aziraphale’s hands were reaching up, grabbing for him, encouraging the back-and-forth, the penetration, the spreading of his own throat.

Although, for the first time, Aziraphale made a noise that could have been a protest. Both Crowley and Huling stopped short and pulled completely away, for fear of hurting, offending, suffocating, or otherwise displeasing the object of both their desires.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that I also remember from our toilet-cubicle encounter, Crowley, that you wished to be able to fuck my mouth, and kiss it at the same time.”

“I did say that.”

“Well, I know from experience, Craig has an absolutely lovely mouth, one you would be very lucky to plunge your tongue into whilst you finish yourself off however you like."

Crowley and Huling locked eyes in a moment of, “Okay, what next?”

Then, Crowley moved over to the nightstand and extracted a bottle of lubricant and handed it to their guest. Huling set the bottle aside for the moment, and reached for a condom, and attempted to hand it to Aziraphale. 

"Oh, er, I rather think you'd better do it. If nothing else, my hands are shaking," said the former angel, who had never even seen one out of its package and had no way of knowing what to do with it.

Huling smiled crookedly. "Mine too," he said, tearing the packet open. Aziraphale watched with interest as Huling’s graceful hands rolled a thin layer of rubber over his aching dick.

"Extraordinary," he mused, without thinking, studying the tight fit.

“Will you need a bit of prying?” Crowley asked their guest, with a smirk, hoping he would say ‘yes.’

"No, thank you. I took the liberty before leaving home.” 

“Smart man,” Crowley sang. "Very well prepared. Though I confess to being disappointed."

Huling drizzled a generous amount of lube over Aziraphale’s hard, sheathed, purple-mushroomed cock, and asked him, “You okay with this?”

“Of course,” answered the former angel, straining his neck to see, as Huling used one hand to spread the slippery substance all over.

Crowley knelt and held up his companion’s head for him, and the two of them watched with frenzied awe as Huling straddled Aziraphale’s middle, and kneeling, guided the bulbous cockhead to his apparently already well-stretched rear passage.

He eased himself back as his ring got stretched even further, and groaned deeply for a moment with his eyes closed. “Still can’t believe this is happening,” he moaned, opening his eyes and locking them with Aziraphale’s. He braced his hands against Aziraphale’s rib cage and stared hard into the beatific blue eyes as he slowly let himself down the rest of the way, filling his hole. He was still for a few beats, savouring the moment, and then he threw his head back, and groaned, “Oh, this feels like Heaven.”

And he began to move, still bracing against Aziraphale’s chest, back and forth, all the way in, then nearly letting the ever-hardening cock slip away, but never quite, before filling himself again, with a delicious liquid moan. Aziraphale moaned in kind, at feeling himself pleasured, tightly pumped. He was trying to keep his eyes open to watch, but found his body on the rise, tightening like before, only with the anticipation of emptying itself into someone (actually, something) brand new. Everything about this was brand new. 

Crowley continued to watch along with him, holding his angel’s head against his shoulder. Huling’s breath hitched, then quickened and he began to ride harder, Crowley whispered, “Holy fuck, this man is bloody lovely.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale moaned as his cock got milked by a taut, skilled, new arse. Huling’s body was solid, smaller, more compact than either of theirs. He gave strong, curt movements, impaled his arse over and over like lightning, like a spring-loaded machine. His voice penetrated the air… he probably didn’t even realise he was doing it, but he repeated, “Yes, yes, yes, yes…” over and over, each time his arse cheeks slapped against Aziraphale’s body, and his backdoor was filled to the hilt. 

Soon enough, without missing a stroke, he reached for the lube, and drizzled a bit along his own long-suffering cock. Then, he implored Aziraphale rather breathlessly, “Stroke it for me, would you? Please?”

“Mm, yes, of course… with… oh… pleasure… oh…” Aziraphale panted, taking hold, beginning to stroke, preparing to finish off their guest.

“Oh, that’s it, angel,” Crowley growled, watching his partner’s hand slip back and forth over Huling’s dick, ready to blow. “Pull hard and fast. Make him shoot off like a cannon... make a big mess!"

"I'm close, too..." Aziraphale moaned, feeling his whole body stimulated, mounting, mounting...

"Interesting," Crowley cooed. "Who's going to lose their load first, eh? Let's see what happens!"

Huling rode harder, he cursed, his eyes watered, and were fixed upon Aziraphale’s face, the mouth gaping open, the blue eyes dilated with painful pleaure, the rosy cheeks, the sweat gathering…

“Oh, it’s going to be me,” he said. “I’m going to come first… now… all over you… all… over… oh my God, you...”

And with that, thick white cream came gushing out in spurts, splattering Aziraphale’s stomach, fist, and wrist. Huling’s crackling exhalation filled the room like a series of tightly-popping balloons, and his eyes continued to water, but he refused to look away from the amazing man beneath him. He couldn’t bear to pull his attention off any aspect of this moment.

His come felt warm and wet against Aziraphale’s skin, and he absolutely adored hearing the moans of pleasure from a completely new source. He also adored the sight of Huling staring into him in total disbelief as he lost control and came, and the relieved, contented smile that spread over his lips as his cock finished spurting, and the last bits oozed out, abating the tension and torture.

But he never stopped moving, never stopped pumping that dick he fancied, with his whole body, letting his arse take it, then lose it.

“Shit.” Crowley spat, and he stood back up, positioned Aziraphale’s head to his advantage, and plunged his dick back into the willing mouth and throat. 

As soon as Aziraphale felt his throat stretched this time, he couldn’t hold on anymore and began to release gushes of warm, wet pleasure whilst buried in Huling’s arse. 

He was lucid enough, somehow, to realise that he was coming into a rubber barrier that kept his emission from entering a near-total stranger's body, and that thought, he found, was comforting. Something could be kept back for himself and Crowley, seemingly without sacrificing any of the pleasure. At least, not that he could tell.

Huling felt the thick shaft in his back chute pulsating and releasing for just a few seconds, his insides gripping and milking an orgasm out of this beautiful man. And then, his mouth was claimed by Crowley’s.

Crowley shoved his dick back and forth between his lover's lips dissolutely, fucking that wet opening without qualm, bracing his hands against the edge of the bed, and his lips and tongue against those of Huling. His angel had been correct – Huling had a hot, willing, skilled mouth that was absolutely delicious to kiss, and might itself be rather delectable to fuck, but Crowley reckoned he shouldn’t be greedy.

The two of them snogged noisily, shamelessly, enthusiastically over Aziraphale’s body, as it finished spasming. Crowley thrusted for another minute, though he could have lost his load all over the place from the moment Huling had begun servicing Aziraphale. He’d been holding back and back and back and back… but this instant held everything in it that he could ever ask for, orchestrated, once again, by the most gorgeous former angel in the known universe…

And he pulled back, because he wanted, like Huling, to look upon that amazing creature’s face while pleasure consumed him, and an explosive release gushed out of him.

He cursed again, and held Aziraphale’s head up with one hand, and with the other hand, wanked out a spray of come on his angel’s neck and chest, all the while admiring everything he could see – his lover’s rosy, shocked face, Huling’s beautiful, heaving body, the wet pools of slippery cream all over Aziraphale's torso.

He groaned hard. “Fuck!” he shouted predictably as the last of it went ‘pop’ and his vision blurred for a second, and he fell to his knees.

Aziraphale sat up, bracing on his elbows his lower body still pinned by Huling's weight. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered, unconvincingly, recovering his faculties. “It’s just… well, that was intense.”

“Mm, it was,” Aziraphale agreed. He dragged one finger from his clavicle all the way down to his abdomen, pulling it through pools of come, from both men.

“Are you going to need a shower?” Huling asked with a little laugh.

“If you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said.

Huling nodded, and set about extracting himself from the situation.

“Crowley, perhaps some gelato for our friend, while you wait?”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley panted from the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still have one more chapter of fun with this trio. Emotions will run deeper in the next bit.
> 
> Sooooo… thoughts on this chapter? Feelings? Please comment - I'm really champing at the bit to hear from all of you! Even if you've never commented before!
> 
> <3


	31. Ineffable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the ménage à trois, in which we get to hear some of Huling’s thoughts… they might surprise you.
> 
> And, this is the last bit of smut for this story! ☹

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished the story last night, rather sadly! This is the second-to-last chapter – I will post the final bit this weekend.
> 
> Regarding the title of this chapter: "Ineffable" is a gimme, yes. A cheap trick, even. But it does accurately reflect Huling’s attitude on this whole thing. My goal with these final two chapters is to get back down to the bare bones of the story, which is an incredibly profound emotional and physical bond between two men, who are learning about love and humanness. That’s where this chapter is ultimately going. And the next one, as well.
> 
> Regarding the action here: again, it’s been through 3-4 drafts, and I have tried my best not to make it a snakepit of appendages and fluids. So easy to let the description get in the way of the hotness… did my best, like always!
> 
> It’s long! But I hope you will find it non-confusing, interesting, scorching hot, and beautiful! Enjoy!

Craig Huling was on a sofa in a posh London flat, incredibly modern, adorned quite purposefully mostly with dark colours and hard edges – the place had almost a gothic feel. Even the settee itself was firm, and low to the ground. And he was sitting on it in his underwear. 

It was a bit surreal.

In one direction, he could vaguely hear a shower going. In the other direction, he could hear someone banging and clanging about in the kitchen.

And inside of his head, he could still hear the pleasured utterances of the most wonderful man alive. The sinuous moans he let out during passionate kisses… the panting and broken language he let slip while having his cock ridden to their mutual bliss… the fabulous, cathartic grunt he gave while orgasming, buzzing, juddering all over… the muffled supplications brought about by having his mouth quite thoroughly fucked.

Every sound he made, every move, every blink, breath and gesture, it all spoke to a person of great passion, great warmth. Crowley had said as much – he was, indeed, a delicious confection, warm like a friend, and also like a bread pudding. An angel. He was a receptive lover, a sensualist, a hungry, luscious soul. 

And there was something about him, something that Huling found elusive, that was rendering the whole evening a bit more painful. He sighed heavily. Something in the fevered proceedings had shone through that made Mr. Fell even more appealing (if that was possible), and harder to walk away from. It wasn’t the openness, or the politeness, or even the moans or the throbs or his lovely, lovely cock. It was something else, something that defied explanation, something… well, almost ineffable.

And God help him, he found Crowley to be pretty damned delectable himself. In a red-light-district sort of way. He was disarming and accommodating to be sure, but also a bit burlesque. Almost as though, at some point, he’d done this professionally. But Huling didn’t want his mind going there.

And the combination of the two of them, Crowley and his magnificent partner, the contrasting personalities both experiencing ecstasy differently… it was intoxicating.

Huling shuddered, and had to concentrate on not allowing his body to show signs of arousal again. The next chapter of the evening was supposed to be all about gelato – cool, sour, crisp, as opposed to hot, sweet, and messy.

But he had no idea if he would ever have his hands all over Mr. Fell again, so he desperately wanted to take these moments to feel. To remember. To file it all away, imprint it upon his soul, and be ecstatic that he had, as Crowley promised, been able to touch perfection just this once.

But it would be quite embarrassing if Crowley came back from the kitchen, and he was sitting there with a huge erection.

Alas, he was sporting no such thing when the tall man (also clad only in underpants) appeared with three teacups heaped with gelato in one hand, and three spoons in the other. He deposited them on the coffee table

They each grabbed a cup and a spoon, and the two of them sat for a minute or two, just taking small bites of gelato, and not saying anything.

And then Crowley asked, “How are you feeling?”

"Half ecstatic, half melancholy."

“Yeah, but you knew that was probably going to happen."

“I did. I was ready for it. Right now, I’m focusing on the ‘ecstatic’ bit.”

Crowley laughed, almost reluctantly. “It was fucking fantastic, wasn’t it?”

“It was. You were right, he is…” Huling gulped.

Crowley smiled sympathetically. “He is.”

“Everything you said.” After a pause, Huling continued, “The fulfillment of a fantasy. Warm. Amenable. Delectable. A little bit slutty. And skilled! I can’t believe he can do that hanging-his-head-off-the-bed thing! That was mental!”

“It’s only too bad you didn’t get to hear him talk,” Crowley said, flashing an eyebrow. “He is absolutely filthy when he gets going. Perhaps on the next go, we’ll see that his mouth is unobstructed.”

“Next go?”

“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you? And we’re both still in our pants. I’m taking that as reason for optimism.”

“All right, then,” Huling said, rather shyly, stifling a smile. “We’ll just wait to hear the shower turn off, then.”

“He takes forever. Sorry.”

“I thought he was just going to rinse off.”

“He can’t do that. Too fastidious. He’ll be along before dawn. Probably.”

They ate gelato in silence for another couple of minutes. 

And then, “You know, Huling, about that bull-in-a-china-shop phenomenon… I’m sorry, but I find it very hard to believe that you are anything short of cat-like in a china shop.”

Huling chuckled. “What a weird thing to say.”

“You don’t move like a wrestler who never learned finesse.”

“I don’t?” Huling asked, not particularly surprised to hear this.

“No. You have control. You’ve been cultivated. You have efficiency. It’s like your body is spring-loaded for fucking. Muscular and hard literally everywhere… quick, warlike movements. Difficult not to think you were built for this.”

"Okay, if we're going to go down this road..." Huling said, attempting to hide his utter delight at what Crowley was saying. "You are… well you clearly know how sexy you are. I’m enamoured of your partner, obviously, but I’d be loath to ignore the fact that sex oozes from your pores, Crowley. And to boot, you’re one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve been told that.”

“I could see how you were a very dangerous corporate fixer.”

“I was good at my job. Well, mostly.”

“And in the bedroom, you are… you are…” Huling stopped, and leaned exaggeratedly away from Crowley, studying him a bit. “I’m finding myself at a loss for an apt adjective. I’m going to go with ‘performative.’”

“Performative?” Crowley asked, with an incredulous smile.

“And serpentine, somehow.”

“Whoa, what?”

“Don’t get me wrong – it’s all very compelling. Have you ever worn a corset?” Huling asked, with a smile. Crowley couldn’t tell if he was serious, or just messing with him.

Nevertheless, he answered the question. “Actually, yes. In my time, I've done just about everything, at least once."

“You know, now you mention it, I’ve been curious… are you strictly a man’s man?”

“Not strictly. Though I think I will be now, for the rest of my life. This relationship is sacrosanct to me, but that’s about him – his energy, his soul, which, frankly could have come packaged in the form of an otter, and I’d still love him,” Crowley answered, absolutely truthfully. 

“I can see that.”

“Eleven years since I’ve been with anyone else – man, woman, or otter. Until tonight.”

“Restlessness?” Huling wondered.

“No, just wanting a treat, and to share my good fortune. And you, my friend, are quite the treat,” Crowley said, nudging his guest’s chin with two bent fingers.

“All you did was kiss me,” Huling said.

"Kissing you, and watching you in action for even ten seconds, told me everything I need to know."

__________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale was back in his charcoal robe, now joining the other two in the lounge.

“Gelato, angel, as requested,” Crowley said, getting to his feet, and putting a teacup into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Ah! Have you finished yours?”

“We have. And it was the third most delicious thing I have tasted tonight,” Crowley said, kissing his lover on the cheek. Then he said, “Speaking of which, I’m wondering how you’d feel about eating gelato while watching your partner snog your favourite cheese merchant. And possibly fondle him a bit.”

“Mixing food and sex, Crowley? I’m not sure I’m one for such a thing,” Aziraphale said, exaggeratedly innocently. “But I’m willing to give it a go, for your sake.”

Huling chuckled. It didn’t take Freud to read into that little slice of their private life.

Aziraphale settled onto his knees on the carpet across the coffee table from Huling, and Crowley re-took his seat beside their guest. He reached out one large hand and cradled Huling’s jowls and neck, pulling him in, and devouring his soft, rounded lips once again. And in return, the fromager sucked the “serpentine” tongue into his mouth, and massaged it with his lips. 

Aziraphale had managed one mouthful of the dessert, but then sat motionless, stunned, with a spoon in-hand, watching the spectacle. 

Crowley’s tongue in someone else’s mouth. Crowley’s lips moving against someone else’s lips. Crowley’s chest being stroked and explored by someone else’s hands…

He wondered if he might feel that low ‘thud’ of jealousy in the pit of his stomach after all, but he did not. All he could do was admire. He was just sorry Crowley couldn’t wear the Armani suit and be naked and explored and exposed at the same time.

Crowley was the first to reach over. He boldly creeped in with his fingers behind the waistband of Huling’s navy blue cotton pants and pulled the half-hard member into the open. He began to stroke it, and Aziraphale watched it harden in Crowley’s hand, while the two of them sucked at each other’s mouths, and moaned rather indecently.

The two sets of lips remained writhing together, as though making a kind of love of their own; Aziraphale was mesmerised by them. He gave up on his spoon, as by now, he fully realised, his robe was tenting again. There was no point in being coy at this stage – he opened the flaps and let his cock jut out, leaned back on one hand, and with the other, stroked himself as he watched.

It took Huling another minute, but eventually, Crowley’s shaft was in his hand, and he was pulling at it, breathless with the loud, sloppy snog.

Another couple of minutes passed this way – leaking cocks, stroking, moaning, the sounds of hungry mouths. Eventually, Crowley turned and looked at Aziraphale, whose erection was now fully realised, very impressive, and being handled quite earnestly by the man himself.

“Like what you see, angel?”

“Curiously, yes.”

“Jump in, save us some work?”

Aziraphale shrugged off the robe. He effortlessly pushed the glass coffee table aside, and with it, three teacups, three spoons, and all thoughts of gelato. 

He began by settling himself between Huling’s knees. The man watched with shock and fascination as he teased at the swollen cockhead for just a few moments, swirling his tongue around, making the fromager’s cross a bit. Then Crowley moved his hand out of the way so that he could press down, until his lips were taut against Huling’s body.

The strong, muscular hips flexed forward, and Huling moaned hard, but refused to take his eyes away from the proceedings. He lost track of what he was doing, and no longer stroked Crowley’s cock, but Aziraphale’s left hand replaced it.

Huling looked at Aziraphale once more as though he couldn’t believe he existed. Crowley, however, noticed that their guest seemed so stunned, still so wrapped up in the ‘I can’t believe this is real’ aspect of the evening, that Crowley wondered if he was feeling any actual pleasure.

“Angel, give him a breather,” Crowley said, gently, and Aziraphale pulled away for a moment. Crowley turned his head toward Huling. “You're not in the moment, Huling. Close your eyes for a few moments. Let yourself feel. For now, it’s just air, and heat, and anticipation.”

Huling did as suggested, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He put his hands at his sides, and Aziraphale couldn't help but begin servicing his lover’s delicious, familiar, throbbing member. And as he did, just for a minute, Crowley concentrated only on Aziraphale, and vice versa. 

They made eye-contact, as Crowley’s cock disappeared over and over into that pretty, willing mouth. “Oh, angel, you’re so fucking good at this,” Crowley hissed, along with a few other disjointed phrases. “Oh fuck… yes, I love that mouth…”

And Crowley’s eyes narrowed then, and they shared an intimate, well-trod moment of intensity, the last stop before the climb to orgasm began in earnest. But as Crowley’s hand began to claw desperately round the back of Aziraphale’s neck, the latter stopped his attentions…

…and moved back to the right. 

Crowley whined with disappointment, but was impressed with his formerly skittish angel. He again whispered to Huling, “Keep your eyes closed. Keep letting yourself feel… feel him. He’ll devour you, make your toes curl, swallow everything you’ve got, if you let him, but you have to give yourself over.”

Aziraphale took Huling’s dick down his throat one more time, and their guest groaned deeply, and also briefly ran one hand through the soft tuft of white curls. “Oh, that’s Heavenly…” he mused, eyes still shut. “Oh, wow… oh…”

Crowley took the opportunity to stand up and get rid of his pants, rush out of the room, and disappear for a moment.

And Huling couldn’t help himself. In Crowley’s absence, he dared to open his eyes and look down. 

There he was – the delectable angel, the most gorgeous man in the universe, the most skilled lover he had ever seen – just there, sucking him off, rhythmically pulling his delicate mouth back and forth over Huling’s cock, looking him in the eye now, expectantly, looking for approval or possibly something else. 

And they were alone together. Huling could pretend, for just a few brief, shining moments, that this was all just for them.

And he felt himself tighten.

Aziraphale felt it too. It was the same winding up for release that he felt a few minutes before, when he was sucking Crowley… and suddenly a great big wave of guilt came over him in the ten seconds while his partner was out of the room, and he was feeling another man’s mushroomed-head penetrating his mouth over and over, priming for release, while staring into an extraordinary set of dramatic, intelligent, asymmetrical eyes…

But then it was over, because Crowley was back, in his place on the sofa.

For a few seconds just before entering back into a delicious snog with Crowley, Huling felt that he had seen once again that inexplicable quality in the man on his knees, that thing he couldn’t explain even to himself, that made the man such a difficult specimen to pin down, or let go of. It was a beautiful slice of time, and yet also, again, a bit painful…

But then Huling’s mind was clouded by his cock being pumped, and his mouth being probed.

And so he probed back… addled, but feverish with lust now.

“Mm, I can feel where this is going, Huling,” Crowley said breathlessly, between kisses. “I can feel you ramping up, and all I’ve got in my mouth is your tongue.”

“Yeah…you're right, I’m… I’m on the edge… please stop,” he said, suddenly to Aziraphale. His hand went to Aziraphale’s shoulder and he pushed.

Aziraphale obeyed, of course. He asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect. You’re… something beyond perfect. Is there a word for that?”

Crowley felt a surge of lust and pride.

“Oh, Craig. I’m afraid you don’t see me objectively,” Aziraphale sighed, eyes cast downward.

“Perhaps not,” Huling agreed. “But I can feel that this incredible little adventure is about to end – at least my part of it. And I just… well, I wanted to delay it a little longer. You had me just there, about to blow…”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said.

Huling sat forward on the sofa, took Aziraphale’s face in his hands gently, pulled him up off his haunches, onto his knees, kissed him on the mouth, and whispered, “I don’t know how much more resistance I have left in me, and I want to be inside you. Just once, just for a little while, before it’s over forever. Will you let me do that?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale replied, in the same low tone.

Huling looked to the right, and saw that the condoms and lube were on the coffee table. “Is that what you went for?” he asked Crowley.

“Yep. One way or another, I thought we might need them.”

Huling stood up, and Aziraphale stayed where he was, on his knees. Crowley moved over and sat in front of him. He too now cradled his angel’s face, kissed him, and asked, “Are you ready for this?”

Aziraphale answered, “If I weren’t, I’d say the hills are alive. But they are not.”

“No wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings?”

Aziraphale smiled. “No poultry whatsoever. No kittens with whiskers, no ponies of any colour.”

“Excellent. I’m going to enjoy the Hell out of this,” Crowley said, with a wicked smile.

“I hope so.”

Huling gave a chuckle. “So, references to ‘The Sound of Music’ must’ve been some sort of safe word?”

“Well… yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “But only because…”

“It’s all right,” Huling said. “What better way to express being uncomfortable?”

“Exactly!”

Silence fell, and their guest was now kneeling behind Aziraphale, stroking his arms, kissing his shoulder. He had shed his pants as well. “Will you bend forward for me?” he asked.

Aziraphale obliged, and found himself leaning fully over, his chest across Crowley’s left leg. He then felt a cool drizzle of lube over his rear hole, and a slippery finger pop inside. It was shorter and thicker than Crowley’s fingers, perhaps even more effective at spreading him open to ready him for the pounding he was about to take. 

He groaned a bit, and might have involuntarily muttered, “Oh, fuck me…” over and over, especially as the finger moved back and forth.

Crowley watched with lust, interest, and bated breath.

A second finger went inside, and then a third. They gave each finger a good minute's adjustment, and at each stage, Huling moved them back and forth, varying the intensity. And then, be began to scissor them.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale moaned. “Do that a bit more roughly, and I’ll be all yours!”

“Roughly? Really?”

“Yes, please!”

Huling was now vibrating three spread fingers inside of the pretty puckered hole before him. This could only continue for a short time before, with a trembling voice, Aziraphale looked back at him, and said, “I’m ready for a good hard fuck – do it now!”

“Oh, my God,” Huling groaned. “I could die right now, with those words ringing in my ears.”

He tore open a small red packet and gracefully slid a rubber sheath down over his cock, then drizzled a bit more lube over it. Huling then steadied himself with a few deep breaths, pressed his aching dick against Aziraphale’s stretched back door, and gave a push. Both of them groaned on the first shove, and Crowley responded, “Oh, fuck… I might pass out.”

With two more strokes, Huling’s shaft was buried completely. He urged Aziraphale upright, and held him across the torso for a few moments. Huling kissed his neck and shoulders, while he worked his own hips back and forth a bit, and the two of them breathed and moaned, bodies pressed together. 

Into Aziraphale’s ear, Huling said, “I really want to fuck you.”

“Then do it.”

“I want to push, fast and hard, listen to you whimper…”

“Do it!”

“But it will be over so soon…”

“Seize the moment, Huling,” Crowley urged. 

Huling smiled, and chuckled. “You’re amazing. Both of you.”

Aziraphale leaned slightly forward and braced his hands on Crowley’s thighs. He felt Huling’s strong, thick fingers wrap round his hips, and then felt the first hard slam. Then the next.

Huling bit his lower lip and moaned, and continued to thrust, clearly trying not to come too soon…

But then he let go of a bit of control, and began to pull back and forth fast and hard. He pounded Aziraphale’s arse with gusto, watching his hard dick go in and out like a piston.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, he feels different from you…”

“Yeah? Tell me how he feels,” Crowley said, handling his own cock, his mouth just a couple of inches from that of his partner.

“He’s like a machine."

“Spring-loaded for fucking! I agree, he’s fantastic! I envy you a bit!”

“You should. It’s glorious… oh… oh…”

“But no, it’s all about you… he’s been wanting you! Can you feel it?”

“I can, and I love how powerful and hungry he is!"

“I love seeing it,” Crowley moaned. “I love watching you take it hard and fast!”

Huling was listening to their exchange, and it wasn’t exactly helping… though not hindering his progress either. Actually, the intimacy of it was sort of lovely, in spite of it excluding him somewhat. Though, he could not forget, he had the best position in the house – the best, possibly, in the world. He growled a bit, and reupped his effort to take full advantage of the moment, to have this man as fully as he dared.

“Faster, harder…” Aziraphale breathed in response. “I love hearing that sound… his flesh slapping against mine!”

“It’s one of my favourite sounds in the universe, angel,” Crowley said, sitting forward to kiss his companion. His hands latched onto Aziraphale’s jowls, and they let their tongues dance for a few moments, and Aziraphale moaned heartily. Crowley pulled away. “Your moan is my absolute favourite sound.”

Aziraphale smiled, and moaned again, then, “Oh, Crowley, I love getting fucked like this!”

“I can tell. You look so beautiful this way.”

“I do?”

“Are you kidding? Getting pounded, your tight little arse turning all pink and raw, panting like a slut…”

Aziraphale pushed forward for another hearty, moan-soaked kiss, and once again, he felt Crowley’s tongue in his mouth, and Huling’s cock in his back passage…

When he pulled away, he whispered, “Oh, it’s so good… so good feeling both of you taking my insides…”

“So good, yes,” Crowley responded. Then another kiss.

“My body is on fire.”

“Mine too. When he’s finished with you, I’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll go blind.”

Huling continued, but he was still listening.

“Yes,” from Aziraphale, then another kiss, a few seconds long this time. “And I will do as well. I’ll give all of myself to you.”

Crowley kissed him back. “You’re such an angel. So insatiable, so…”

And their lips met again, hard, passionately, and something happened.

Rather, something occurred to Huling.

He stopped what he was doing - though it took a Herculean effort. He gave Aziraphale one last embrace, and a kiss on the shoulder, and withdrew himself reluctantly. He took a seat on the sofa beside Crowley, in a position to watch what would happen next. He peeled off the condom and threw it aside, and just sat for a moment. 

Twice he had been on the edge of coming, twice he had stopped, moved away… and now he knew why. There was this "quality" nagging at him, that made his favourite bookseller all the more painfully desirable, which he had only seen tonight. He had not been able to identify it, though now it seemed so bloody obvious. He now understood that he had waited, held back his orgasm, until he could see it in its glory.

“You all right?” Crowley asked him. And in fact, they both looked at Huling with concern.

“I’m fine. Please proceed.”

“Sure?”

“Oh, yes. I’m just going to watch.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, and contemplated him for a few lascivious moments. He then reached for the lubricant, lying nearby on the floor. “Lean back,” he said with a certain command in his voice.

Crowley did as told, leaned back on the sofa, and brought his knees up to make room. Aziraphale drizzled a bit of slippery over his companion's puckering rosebud, making a mental note to find a good upholstery cleaner in the morning. He placed his fingers just there, ready to open Crowley up for the fray.

“Don’t bother, angel,” Crowley said, his hand catching his partner’s wrist, his voice on the edge of a growl. “I can’t wait.”

“Are you certain?”

“Mm,” Crowley moaned.

“Can I tell you the truth? I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” Aziraphale said to him, pressing his cock to the lubed-up hole, and pushing through carefully. He stopped, waited for Crowley’s breath to equalise, then pushed further, slowly, burying himself completely. He left his pelvis in position for the time being, giving his partner time to adjust. He leaned forward and planted kisses all over the sinewy bare chest. He let his tongue escape a few times, and lap at the hot flesh. He whispered, “You are so sweet, so perfect.”

He supported Crowley’s legs with his arms, and he began to move. He pulled his hips back and forth slowly, concentrated, for the moment, more on the penetrating brown eyes than on anything he felt below the waist.

Beside them, Huling looked on, swatting away any pain and jealousy for the moment, and admiring the interaction, the skill, the concentration. He felt calm enough to begin stroking his cock, reasonably certain it wouldn’t shoot off before he was ready.

The two lovers locked eyes, smiled softly at each other, finding a careful beat together. Every now and then, one of them sighed. Aziraphale bowed his head and kissed one of Crowley’s knees, nestled in the crook of his arm. He did this several times. Crowley pressed his hands into his companion’s chest, and closed his eyes. He lost himself for a few moments in the back and forth motion that he could feel against his palms, and in his backside. The perfect, flowing rhythm of life and desire, in and out, filling him, then pulling away, all the while listening to groans, breathing.

“Angel, you don’t have to go slowly on my account,” Crowley said, opening his eyes.

“I’m not,” Aziraphale responded. “I’m just loving you.”

Crowley nodded subtly. “Do what feels good.”

“I am.”

Crowley turned his head once again toward Huling, whose hand was moving over and over his own cock in the same rhythm as Aziraphale’s moved inside of Crowley. 

“Can you help you with that?” he asked.

Huling smiled softly. “Don’t worry about me. Concentrate on what you have right in front of you.”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale and said, “You heard the man. You have my full attention.”

Aziraphale said nothing, but pressed Crowley’s legs back, and leaned far forward for a kiss. He plunged his tongue into that tempting mouth, devouring it, groaning, and increasing his rhythm.

When his mouth was free, Aziraphale whispered, “Good, because I want to give you everything I’ve got.”

“That’s it – fuck me good, angel. Hard.” Again, Aziraphale increased his rhythm. He was now clearly on a forward climb toward orgasm, and there would be no turning back.

Crowley wrapped his hand around his own dick and began to pump quite earnestly.

Aziraphale smiled a bit at this. “Come with me?”

“When I feel you fill me up, angel, you won't be able to stop me.”

“Yes, good, you feel so good, so warm and willing…. I want to come in you… soon…”

“Then don’t stop fucking me, angel.”

“I’ll never stop,” Aziraphale whispered. “Never.”

All the while, their eyes were locked, their voices low, their attention focused, on one another, as though there were no-one else in the world, let alone in the room.

Crowley wanked himself, Huling did likewise, and Aziraphale pounded forward. Over and over again, and now the room filled his with his open-mouthed groans and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh once again.

“You’re close, angel, I can see it in your eyes,” Crowley breathed. “Let yourself go! Fill me up with your come… make me all yours! The release will feel so good inside my arse… let it go!”

Aziraphale groaned, and momentarily closed his eyes when the first wave came over him. But as spurt after spurt began to flow out of him and into his partner’s waiting, twitching body, he opened them, vindicated, claiming this man as his own.

Just as the fever was beginning to die down, jets of slippery cream spurted out of Crowley’s dick, onto his stomach and hand. He, too, momentarily lost focus, but then refocused on the blue-eyed angel before him, and held that beautiful face in his gaze while he finished.

Aziraphale dragged two of his fingers through the pools of come on Crowley’s stomach, then brought them to his mouth to taste. “Mm,” he sighed, relishing in the salt, the passion, the warm proof of his lover’s ardour for him.

And when they calmed, Aziraphale pulled back and rested on his haunches, Crowley sat upright, and both looked at Huling. He, too, had splattered slick, white come all over himself, and he was in the last phase of pumping… the liquid was still oozing out of the head of his cock, over his tight, slowing fingers. They watched him give his last pulse, his last groans, and then relax a bit. He took a few breaths, closed his eyes, and said to them, “That was absolutely stunning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you may be feeling that this chapter ends on something of a cliffhanger – you would not be wrong. Rest assured that in the final chapter, we will resolve Huling’s story. There is still a moderate amount of validation and ineffable explication (oxymoron?) to do, so, do not fret.
> 
> And… what did you think of this chapter? Please leave a comment with your thoughts – it would make my day! And as always, thank you for reading!


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite couple wrap up a few things. How will things move forward (if at all) with Huling? What about the holiday in Mallorca they've been planning? What about the fact that Crowley was talking with an estate agent a few months back? What about all those creature comforts they've been learning about from each other? 
> 
> And what lies in their future?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, this is the last chapter! This has been SO. MUCH. FUN. I can't even say! I'm so appreciative of everyone who read and commented, and dialogued with me!
> 
> My intent was to create a realistic, warm(ish) conclusion to the Huling saga - NOT to give you a melancholy ending! It's supposed to be all about Crowley and Aziraphale anyway... here, I was hoping to finish what I started at the beginning of the previous chapter, "Ineffable." Something got under Huling's skin... what was it? And what does it mean to us?
> 
> Early in the story they said they would leave for their holiday on "Saturday the sixteenth," which implies that it's in the coming month. I have no idea what month that might be. But since then, there has been A LOT happening, and I would guess that quite a bit more than just three or four weeks have passed! I always intended to end this story as they prepare to leave for Mallorca... I guess I just kept getting ideas for more smut and creature comforts!
> 
> Okay, folks, here we go - enjoy!

As Saturday nights go, it had been a brilliant one. It might have been the second most profound Saturday of their existences.

But Sunday was marked by a lot of Nothing Special. They had cleaned up the flat, run some errands to prepare for their trip to Mallorca, begun streaming a new show, and did not discuss Craig Huling, nor the strange exit he had taken, after their second tryst in the lounge.

They both felt that his words, as their liaison came to a close, “That was absolutely stunning,” were a bit cryptic, given that he hadn’t participated, in the end. They felt a little sheepish about how, indeed, it had ended, and yet, Huling had seemed peaceful when he left. He had kissed them both, then rinsed off in the shower, before getting dressed. By then, the coffee table had been put back in place and the teacups, spoons, and lube had been taken away. He had offered to help tidy the kitchen, but had been told “No, no, it’s fine,” and so he had kissed them both again, and gone home with a smile on his face. 

Not an ear-to-ear grin, just a serene upward curl of the corners of his mouth, indicating generally good feelings.

Were it not for the goodnight kisses, one would never have guessed, at the moment of departure, that what had transpired between the three of them that evening had been something much more than simply dinner and drinks.

“Think he’s all right?” Crowley had asked, as they shut the door.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “He seems to be. But perhaps we should check on him in a few days.”

“Yeah. We should.”

That was just after two o’clock in the morning (Saturday night), and it was the last they spoke of it until Monday, around ten a.m.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It was late Monday morning, and Crowley had news. 

He pulled into a parking spot behind the bookshop, designated for owners of establishments in the area (which he was finding more and more tedious to do in the Bentley).

He stepped into the bookshop, and to his surprise, Aziraphale was placing a first edition of “Sanditon” into a bag for a customer.

“Thank you, dear lady,” he was saying. “Please enjoy.”

The lady left the shop, and Crowley looked about. “Is she the only one?”

“For the moment, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Glad to see you. Hadn’t expected you until lunchtime.”

“Well, I have something to discuss with you, and I didn’t want to wait, or do it over the phone. Wait… what’s that?” Crowley said, interrupting himself, gesturing to a spray of bright yellow flowers sitting in a vase on the rolltop desk.

“Flowers.”

“I see that. Are they from…”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “They’re not from Craig. Actually, they’re for Craig.”

“Oh. Nice idea. Very you.”

“I thought it might be a good thing if one or both of us stopped by later, brought him these, and said thanks for a lovely evening, and that the door to friendship is always open, and… I don’t know…”

“That we love his cheese?” Crowley asked, sardonically.

“I know it sounds a bit silly, but I feel that we can’t leave things this way. I know he was smiling, but the smile seemed somehow inscrutable when he left the flat Saturday night. I have no idea what he was thinking.”

“If he wanted us to know, he would have been more… you know… scrutable. He would have allowed us to scrute. Is that a word?"

“I just hope we haven’t bungled things up,” Aziraphale fretted.

“Well, how do you feel? Bungled at all? How are the hills? Alive or dead?” Crowley approached him, and put his arms out for a hug.

Aziraphale obliged. “Mostly dead. Which is good. I feel… well, glad to have had the experience – the event itself, the feelings and pleasures associated with it, to have made you happy, or tried to."

"Yeah?"

"Yes! I mean... just from the standpoint of sensation, personal gratification, enjoyment, excitement, et cetera, then... oh, it was explosive! Magnificent! I can see why you have always so enjoyed the trio!” He pulled away from the embrace. “But I’m apprehensive that things will never be the same for our friend, and our friendship with him, such as it was.”

“I see.”

“But I feel secure with you… is that what you’re asking? Making sure I have no worries that you’d stray?”

“Well yeah, that's a factor... that question.”

“I’m not worried. But if you do find that you want to stray…”

“I won’t stray, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, with a smirk. 

“I’m just saying, you can tell me anything.”

“Angel, just stop. It hasn’t even been thirty-six hours. We don’t need to start making plans for another go.”

“Okay.” There was a pause, then, “Well, how about you? Any particular feelings about Saturday night? Opinions?”

Crowley took a couple steps back, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was a bloody gorgeous evening.”

“Oh, really? Got what you were aiming for?”

“Oh yes. And more.”

“That’s so good to hear. It was, after all, for you that I did it.”

“I know. And I’m so lucky, angel – so very lucky. Which I realise more than ever now. I get to spend my nights, my days, my life with a coveted man. Who went to great lengths to make me happy.”

A bell went ‘ding’ then, indicating someone walking into the shop.

“Hello, gents,” said Craig Huling with a soft smile, stepping inside, cradling a vase of flowers. “How does this morning find you?”

“It finds us quite tranquil,” Aziraphale said to him. “And you?”

“That’s a complicated question,” Huling replied, with a shy smile. Then he held out the flowers. “These are for you – the pair of you.”

Crowley was standing a bit closer, so took the vase, and moved to set them down on the antique coffee table. It was a bouquet of deep red roses, mixed with white. A dozen of each. 

Crowley felt strangely moved by them. He could not remember ever having been “moved” by flowers ever in his long, long life. His houseplants were a whole different business…

“They’re beautiful, thank you,” Aziraphale said. He then gestured to the yellow bouquet on his desk. “Actually, I’d bought an arrangement for you, too. I thought perhaps we’d stop by later and… well, actually, do what you’re doing now.”

“I thought you might,” Huling said. “I decided to beat you to it."

"Oh?"

Huling sighed. "I wanted to be the one to reach out, and determine the manner of retreat, as it were. I might sound daft, but…”

“You wanted to set the tone for what comes next,” Crowley said. “We get it. Better than standing about waiting for one of us to turn up, and say our piece to you, which could be… who knows what.”

“Exactly,” Huling confessed. He took a deep breath, and said, calmly, “So, I’m here to say three things."

"Three?" Aziraphale asked, sceptically, a bit nervous about what was coming next. 

"Yes," Huling said. Then he smiled. "The first is, thank you. I had a wonderful time on Saturday night – better than I ever could have imagined. I am so glad I took a chance – and I mean that! There is a gambler inside of me who is dangerously exhilarated just now! So glad you talked me into it, Crowley.”

“We are, too,” Aziraphale whispered.

“The second thing I wanted to say is…” Huling continued. “Well, you might have thought I was acting a bit weird there at the end. I didn’t know how to express myself then, but I’ve had a day to think about it.”

“Yeah, we did notice,” Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale, who nodded.

Huling said, “It’s because, during the proceedings, I started to feel something… new.”

“Like what?” Crowley wondered.

Huling took Aziraphale's hand for a moment, seemed to contemplate it, then dropped it again, and stepped back. Then, he addressed the bookseller directly. “From the moment I met you five years ago, I have been obsessing a bit over your excellent qualities. You are handsome, refined, intelligent, gentle, generous, sentimental, friendly… and, well, I could go on. And whenever I’ve been in your company, there’s a certain… awe. Admiration. Desire, obviously. But with all of that has come the unpleasant feelings of unrequited coveting, such as nervousness, uncertainty, sadness. 

“But being with the two of you the other night brought about a new revelation,” Huling continued. “I saw something new, a quality in you that I had never noticed before, that I couldn’t name. All night, I felt it in waves, something making you, if possible, more desirable to me, but also squeezing my heart in a way I couldn’t explain even to myself.”

“Did you ever work out what it was?” Aziraphale asked, his throat rather dry.

“Yes, toward the end. It was when you and Crowley got wrapped up in each other while I was…”

“Oh yes… behind me.”

“Yes. I understood then. That quality is… well, for lack of a better way to put it, your capacity for great love.”

“Oh… Craig…”

“Because yes, you were feeling pleasure. Yes, you were proving yourself to be sexually ravenous, and were doing delightfully depraved things all evening. And yes, I’ve seen a side to you that’s manipulative and spoiled, but now I think I know where it all fits into your personality. I think it’s all part of a lust for life, and with that comes, big, big, love. And I decided to take the opportunity to watch you swim in it. It was a profound thing to see… the two of you doing what you do. Making love. Bonding hard. Being together. Being in love. Clinging to one another and never letting anything truly get in the way. It’s what everyone on Earth is looking for – well, most of us. And to see it in you, that love pouring out of you, and to see it so well-received… that was what was ‘absolutely stunning’ about the end of our night.”

“Well… we’d been wondering,” Aziraphale whispered. Though he knew it was rather an impotent thing to say in response to such powerful words.

“And while I find it painful because I now fully understand that you are out of my reach,” Huling said, shifting his feet, and staring at the floor. “I was also grateful to have seen it, glad to know who you are at last, and reassured that I hadn’t spent the last five years pining after a man who isn’t worth the trouble.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Crowley stepped in, clumsily, and said, “This is… surprising. Erm… thank you for saying it.”

Huling smiled at Crowley. “It’s something you feel every day, but like a delectable dessert, it’s nice when someone else validates how lucky you are.”

“Well… yes.”

“Craig, I really have no words…” Aziraphale whispered.

“There’s a first,” Crowley joked.

“You don’t have to have words,” Huling told him. “Just know that I know the truth, and I think it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered.

“But,” Huling said, with a big inhale, followed by a big exhale. “The sun is also beautiful.”

“Erm… yes, and?”

“It’s beautiful, but it’s not something I look directly at, or I will be hurt.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. Now it was his turn to shuffle his feet, and stare at the floor.

“So now, I’m to the third and final thing I came here to say,” Huling announced. “You guys are great, but I’m going to need to keep a bit of distance for a while.”

“Understood,” Crowley said, because Aziraphale’s jaw had dropped, and he was, again, speechless.

“I’m going to need to, erm… well, like Crowley said, set the tone for what happens next. What I would like is to pop by here now and then to say hello, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t surprise me in my shop. I know that sounds unfair, but for my sanity, for the time being, that’s the scenario that would work best for me.”

“It’s not unfair,” Crowley assured him. “We get it. We will find a new cheese shop, until you tell us otherwise. And we’ll hope to see you once in a while in the meantime.”

Huling smiled. “I mean, we’re neighbours, we can hardly avoid each other completely, forever. Wouldn’t want to anyway.”

Crowley smiled back. “Exactly – so, your way is best.”

“I have to decide for myself when I’m up to seeing you guys. I can’t be caught off-guard. I’ve got too much to lose.”

“We understand,” Crowley said, assuring him again. Then he nudged Aziraphale. “Don’t we?”

“Erm, yes… and… oh, we’re sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Huling said. “You did absolutely nothing wrong. I made this decision for myself. I was persuaded yes, but ultimately, the choice was mine to participate in something I knew would have consequences for me… and here they are.”

“We can live with them,” Crowley said. “Long as you can.”

“I am genuinely glad to have got to be with you both. And every word I have ever said to either one of you has been the truth. Especially this morning. But this is how I’ll have to proceed, just until I feel stable enough to go back to the way things were. Or maybe until I move onto something better. Who knows, maybe I can meet someone now, and actually give myself to them, instead of being gun-shy and hung up, and… well, anyway…”

“You might be pleased to know that we’re headed to Mallorca in a couple of days,” Crowley offered. “We’re gone for three weeks, so we’ll be completely out of your hair for a while.”

“All right, well… safe travels,” Huling said. “I’ll come visit in a month or so, after you’ve had time to rest and recover.” And he opened the door to leave.

“Oh, Craig,” Aziraphale said, bustling toward the rolltop desk, lifting up the yellow bouquet, and coming back to the entryway with it. “You’re forgetting these.”

Huling put up one hand, and said, “I don’t want to be rude, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”

And with that, he stepped out the door, and pulled it shut behind him.

The two stood where they were for a moment, then Crowley said, “You know what? If I were him, I wouldn’t want it either.”

“Yes, I should have known that. Will you please clear the books off this display table? I’ll put it here, for the time being.”

Crowley stacked the books, then removed them all with one arm, and Aziraphale replaced them with the yellow bouquet. The books wound up plunked down somewhere indiscriminate, but the bookseller didn’t seem to mind today.

\--------------------------------------------------

Over lunch, Crowley got round to telling Aziraphale the news he had had that morning when he had first arrived at the bookshop. He had had a call from Laura Minahan, the estate agent he had been speaking with a couple months back. An amazing flat had just become available, with exposed brick and multiple fireplaces. Crowley had told her they wouldn’t be able to make any decisions until after their holiday, but asked her to compile a list of places, with those qualities, that they could look at when they returned to London.

“Exposed brick? I find I quite fancy that idea,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, me too,” Crowely agreed. “It might be one of the few aesthetic things that appeals to both of our sensibilities. Plus… fireplaces? Come on!”

Aziraphale smiled widely, and said, “Well done, Crowley. I can’t wait to begin contemplating the next chapter of our lives. One that reflects ‘us,’ rather than me living with you, and learning from you.”

“I’ve learned plenty from you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Crowley conceded with a wink.

\--------------------------------------------------

Navigating the airport with Aziraphale turned out to be an examination of patience.

Which Crowley more or less failed.

Aziraphale’s baggage was as fastidious as everything else about him, and he absolutely refused to use a rucksack as hand-luggage. This resulted in the check-in clerk calling her superior to find out whether they needed to charge an extra two hundred pounds to insure his antique train case, and his having to dig into a monogrammed satchel each time he was obliged to show his passport.

“Oh, for Somebody’s sake, Aziraphale, would you please just put that in your pocket or something, so we don’t have to go through this every six minutes?” Crowley whined, after they entered the line for security, passing a guard who asked to see their documents.

“I can’t just put it in my pocket, that’s where pickpockets love to pick! And I don’t have the power to just make whatever they’ve taken reappear in my hand, now do I?”

“Pickpockets love to pick? What do you think this is, Oliver Twist? Okay, look, we’re coming up on the main security checkpoint – this is the trickiest bit. If you don’t do it right, you hold up the queue and everyone behind you will talk about you forever. So, you’re going to have to put your satchel thingie on the conveyor belt, and then remove your shoes. Maybe not in that order.”

“Remove my what?”

“Your shoes. It’s a thing.”

“I don’t want to do that! Surely there must be a way around it.”

“There isn’t, unless you want to be interrogated by humourless guys with guns. I told you to wear those loafers you wore to Harrod’s, but you didn’t listen. Actually, I told you to wear about a third as many layers as usual, since we’re on holiday, but you didn’t listen to that, either. Or about the rucksack, or about buying a new case…”

“Yes, yes, I know – I’m tedious. You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Aziraphale said, with a snooty eyeroll. “Now why do we have to remove our shoes? Are you messing me about because I’ve never done this before?”

“No! Look, angel, everyone is removing their shoes! It’s because of that bloke eighteen years ago who… you know what? Never mind. We’ll talk later. For now, just take off your shoes, put them in that tray there, and don’t make a scene, or we’ll be here all day. And we don’t need anyone leading us to a locked room and picking through our identities with a fine-tooth comb, now do we?”

Crowley hadn’t been what one might call a ‘frequent flyer’ over the past century, but he’d done it often enough to be familiar with the procedures, and how they changed. Miracling oneself from one country to another, under the best of circumstances, takes an enormous amount of energy, and raises red flags in both home offices. So for his visits to the Holy Land, China, the Americas, et cetera, the twentieth century had been awfully convenient with its wonderful flying machines.

The twenty-first century, however, had turned flying into a pain in the arse, and that’s why they were here, removing their shoes, going through the rigmarole.

Aziraphale was sufficiently nervous to pay attention, do as told, and managed not to seem overly cagey moving through the metal detector.

Putting their shoes back on, sitting on a bench on the other side of security, they watched an agent remove a bottle of lotion from a woman’s hand luggage, mildly chastise her in front of about twenty people, and drop it in the rubbish bin, almost with relish.

Crowley said, “See, now, aren’t you glad we decided to buy our personal bottle of slippery when we get to our destination? What’s more embarrassing… buying lube in a store, or THAT?”

“Yes, yes, you’re very wise,” Aziraphale said. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Ninety minutes later, they were finally on the plane, and Aziraphale was underwhelmed by the experience of being fastened in to a chair, sitting in rows with not much leg room, and not being able to see outside except through a tiny window, which the lady next to him had shut.

“Well, what were you expecting?” Crowley asked. “Laser beams? Fanfare?”

“I don’t know. More comfort. A lounge?”

“Oh yeah, I miss those days,” Crowley mused. "Next time, we'll go first class."

“Well, the flight isn’t too long – we’ll make do. Let's distract ourselves in conversation. So… what are you looking most forward to when we arrive?” Aziraphale asked, folding his hands in his lap, and looking expectantly at his partner to his left.

“To be honest, a shower.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley rather growled with a flit of the eyebrow. He then whispered, “Hopefully with company.”

“Ah yes, well, I think that could be arranged,” said the former angel, quite fussily, hoping no-one was listening. “Oh, have I told you, I found a Saturday morning yoga class on the beach?”

“Oh! That’ll be interesting.”

“Yes, and challenging! I’m looking very much forward to it! Which reminds me, did you pack some Ibuprofen for yourself? You know how you ache afterwards.”

“Yes, I did. I also brought my laptop along so we can unwind with the Golden Girls, if we want.”

Aziraphale laughed out loud. “That sounds, somehow, Heavenly!”

“Oh, shit! I forgot to pack those satin pyjamas!”

“I remembered them. Mine, and yours as well – don’t worry.”

“Aw, angel, what would I do without you?”

They grasped hands, but resisted the urge to have a short snog.

Just then, an announcement came over the tannoy that all passengers were to switch off their electronic devices. Crowley obliged by darkening his phone, and as he did so, he said, “Last night, I loaded this thing with, like, nine hours of new music.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“All sorts of stuff. I’ve picked out a few rock bands that you might not completely detest, and I also downloaded the entire Beethoven songbook, as well as Chopin. And Karl Orff. Can’t resist Orff.”

“You would like Orff, wouldn’t you?”

“Please, 'Carmina Burana' is on par with the angstiest of angsty, most sensual pieces of music ever created,” Crowley agreed. 

"No argument here."

“You packed your twenty-first century costume, right? I did see you shrinkwrap that leather jacket?”

“Yes, yes. I know it pleases you, so I brought a smattering of modern apparel. And you – suit?”

“Of course. I don’t know if I can ever be without that suit again, truth be told.”

“A wise sentiment, indeed,” Aziraphale agreed, with a high giggle.

“Though,” Crowley complained, tugging at the hair on the back of his neck. “I didn’t have a chance to get back to Cédric’s for a cut.”

“Me neither."

"We should probably find someplace new anyway. In London, I mean, when we get back."

"Perhaps. Well, maybe we can find a good barbershop in the resort, or nearby.”

The plane was on-time, and was now taxi-ing on the runway, preparing to speed up and soar.

They were pressed back into their seats with the speed, and Aziraphale dug his hand into Crowley’s. It was a sensation, in spite of having been an angel, he had never experienced.

“Flying is very different when you’re putting your very short life in someone else’s hands,” he commented.

“Don’t worry – we’ll be there in no time.”

“Times like this, I miss the old state of things."

"Yeah?"

Aziraphale said, "Our life is wonderful now, and I do so enjoy being left alone to enjoy it as we like. Together. Not hiding from anyone. Indulging. Being spoilt and naughty, and getting all of our creature comforts under our skins.”

“It has been amazing, hasn’t it?”

“More so than I could ever have dreamed, Crowley. And that’s down to you.”

“No, no, it’s down to us both,” Crowley insisted, and they squeezed hands, and shared a moment of true closeness. Then, Crowley sighed. “But I know what you mean. So nice to be able to wave your hand, and the kitchen is clean. Not to have to worry about catching a disease, or buying petrol.”

“Keep antiques in perfect condition. No decay of the body.”

“Being able to drink buckets of wine if we want!”

And they both laughed.

A silence passed between them, and Aziraphale said, “If you’ll remember, the Almighty did give us a choice.”

“She did, yes,” Crowley conceded. “I think about that sometimes. Do you?”

“Oh, yes. We have about six months left to think on it – what’s your take?”

“Well, if we go back, then we’d be immortal again, and you and I would have a lot more than the next thirty or years, or whatever, to be together.”

“But,” Aziraphale countered. “We would always be looking over our shoulders, and wondering who is watching, and if things will eventually go back to the way they were in the old days, when we had to skulk about.”

“Yeah, I know – that was rubbish. And we were, at least outwardly, just friends then. Think of the skulking we’d have to do, in order to get away with what we’ve been doing since then. I don’t fancy that at all.”

“On the other hand, if we went back, we might have the Archangel Michael on our side. She seemed willing to stand in our corner. And she’s the only one of the lot of them who isn’t a bloody cretin. Perhaps she could misdirect any surveillance, as a way of doing penance for giving us up to Gabriel before.”

“I suppose it’s worth contemplating,” Crowley admitted.

“If we went back, you wouldn’t have to get a job when we return from Mallorca,” Aziraphale offered.

Crowley was quiet for a few moment, then he said, “If we stayed human, we could get married.”

“Oh!”

“Just food for thought. We picked a pretty good time in history to… do what we’re doing.”

“Yes, I suppose we did,” Aziraphale said, with a delighted smile, revealing that this possibility had never really occurred to him before.

Crowley inhaled sharply, then, “However, as this century is fond of saying, love is love. A marriage is a piece of paper. The one cannot change the other, for better or for worse.”

“Love is love, yes, and marriage is a declaration. It’s a seal. A promise. A psychological union, if nothing else, for a couple. And it's a way for friends to participate. All of which we could, admittedly, have without the piece of paper, but…”

“I was just thinking, after six thousand years of ducking and hiding, it might be nice to be official, you know?” Crowley said, lightly.

“It would be, yes. Very nice,” Aziraphale agreed. Then he sighed heavily. “But I’m seeing this issue as a smallish cog in a very large, complex machine.”

“Well, I’m up for it, if it’s in the cards. But you’re right, it’s just one thing to consider in the great big grand scheme of things.”

“Heaven and Hell, or the Earth?” 

“To be, or not to be human?” Crowley sighed.

“An excellent question.”

And they held hands until the plane reached a comfortable cruising altitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for "Creature Comforts." Hope you had as much fun as I did.
> 
> I am planning ONE more installment to this series... with Covid-19 becoming a part of our lives, the story is morphing, so I will have to work on the outline a lot before I can begin.
> 
> Before that, though, I have an idea for a one-off story involving Crowley and Aziraphale, and probably what they talked about that night when Crowley said, "You can stay at my place, if you like." And, I have a story from another fandom I'd like to post, just to see what happens.
> 
> I will be busy, and hope to see your comments in the future! Take care, everyone, and thanks SO MUCH!


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